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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29777418">thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roccolinde/pseuds/Roccolinde'>Roccolinde</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Post-Canon, more relationships/characters to be added as they appear</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:34:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>41,076</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29777418</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roccolinde/pseuds/Roccolinde</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months after becoming Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Brienne is dismissed from her post in order to serve the kingdoms through a marital alliance. She returns home to Tarth to face the life she'd once rejected, the suitors vying for her hand, and the grief she has been denying.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Addam Marbrand &amp; Brienne of Tarth, Brienne of Tarth &amp; Selwyn Tarth, Brienne of Tarth &amp; Septa Roelle, Brienne of Tarth/Original Character(s), Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>564</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>349</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Surprise! It's yet another post canon/canon divergent fic from me. One day I will get bored with this emotionally fertile ground, but it is not this day. </p><p>Title comes from John Donne's <i>Death be not proud</i> because I was once again on my Sayers bullshit. This time it's Gaudy Night and the questions about women's roles and what makes a marriage. It otherwise bears no resemblance to the novel, but also you should all read it immediately if you haven't yet.</p><p>I have not-as-many-chapters-as-I-wanted backlogged, so I'm going to try and update this every other Thursday for now.</p><p>With immense thanks to Luthien, Samirant, sdwolfpup, kirazi, and everyone else I whined at about this fic.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaime Lannister was dead. </p>
<p>She knew it the night she woke to an empty bed, the furs beside her cool though it was the closing of the door that had woken her. She knew it even as she rose and dressed, fingers trembling. She knew it in the courtyard, felt it in the harsh words and gentle touches and her heart bleeding out between them, in the snow that soaked her slippers and the burn of her lungs as she sobbed. </p>
<p>She knew it in the shadows that lurked in every corridor, a few weeks somehow imprinting themselves on every stone in Winterfell. She knew it when a raven arrived, and Lady Sansa turned to her, pity in her eyes. She wept that night for all that might have been, if either of them had loved less. (Wept, she thought, as if it were a delicate thing instead of a monstrous agony that left her flayed raw in body and mind.)</p>
<p>She knew it as she prepared to ride south, as she packed her meagre possessions and wondered whether she could request new quarters upon their return. Cowardly, perhaps, but he was dead and yet she still expected to see him in the doorway, snow dusting his cloak and love in his eyes. As they rode from snow into what seemed almost like spring, she knew it. She knew it when they arrived to a King’s Landing destroyed by two queens made mad by the world they had tried to rule. She knew it as she watched his brother speak of stories, as a strange boy was made King. She knew this, more than anything to be true:</p>
<p>Jaime Lannister did not have to die, but he had. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The evening Bran Stark was made king, he came to her quarters. That was what she would remember later—he had not summoned her, but come instead.</p>
<p>“Your Grace,” she said, rising to her feet.</p>
<p>“Ser Brienne,” he replied. “Do not trouble yourself for me.” He turned his head. “That will be all for now, Podrick.”</p>
<p>Pod spared Brienne a small, worried glance. She remembered that later too. </p>
<p>“I had hoped to avoid this,” Bran said, companionably. </p>
<p>Brienne thought he might have hoped, but had done little to stop it. It was a bitter thought, and unbecoming. She <em>liked</em> Bran Stark, odd as he was. She was just tired of it all. The war and the death and the lust for power, none of it bringing peace.</p>
<p>“Would you care for a drink?” she asked.</p>
<p>“No. This conversation will…” He paused, considering. “No. Sit, please.”</p>
<p>She did, though it felt odd, better accustomed as she was to standing guard. </p>
<p>“I have need of a Kingsguard,” Bran said bluntly. “The institution is not what it could be, I think.”</p>
<p>“No,” agreed Brienne, remembering a bath, an arrival north, the man who’d defied those vows not once but twice because he believed it right. </p>
<p>“It is why I wish for you to be my Lord Commander.”</p>
<p>“Your Grace…”</p>
<p>She did not know what to say. Ser Brienne of Tarth, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Ser Brienne of Tarth, sworn to Lady Sansa. Ser Brienne of Tarth, heir to the Evenstar. She could not be all of them at once. </p>
<p>“I will not demand your answer yet,” Bran said. “You will not give it tonight, I think. But I will ask. You will do it well.”</p>
<p>“If I accept.”</p>
<p>“Of course,” he nodded. “If you do not, this is merely a conversation between friends before we are parted for a time.”</p>
<p>Brienne glanced down to look at the floor beneath her feet. Dug her toe against it, a nervous habit she had not felt need of in years. </p>
<p>“My father…” she began, sighed. “My father requires an heir, and there is none but me.”</p>
<p>“It would be a poor king that left a loyal house bereft,” Bran said, and perhaps he meant— “There are paths ahead, though I cannot know which you will take. But trust in this—House Tarth will not die with you, regardless of the choice you make.”</p>
<p>She nodded at him, and thanked him for the consideration. Her answer was not simple. She spoke with Lady Sansa, who said she would miss Brienne if this was the path she chose, but she had long ago fulfilled her vows to Catelyn Stark and Bran likely had more need of her, here in the south where Starks were not meant to stay. She examined the Kingsguard records, her fingers hovering over Jaime’s sparse, scrawled writing. Considered what good she might do. Visited the maester, and woke to soiled sheets. Walked through the keep and then the city, finding need in every corner. <em>Defend the innocent</em>. She knew what she must do, had known from the moment he had asked.</p>
<p>“I accept, Your Grace,” she said, nearly a sennight after he’d spoken with her. “But not without some concessions.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>    When Brienne had accepted the position of Lord Commander, she knew it would be difficult and was not deterred; it was a worthy duty and she would not run from it. And from the first day, she had done good. Not as much as she would have liked, or as quickly, but good all the same. Her days were full, and she slept well at night. The Goldcloaks now answered to her as well as the Kingsguard, and she held them to the same high standard. There were systems in place for the smallfolk to seek basic medical aid and food if they needed it, and the streets were less dangerous for it. The vow of celibacy for the guard was gone; she saw no need to make the men oathbreakers from the start. It was a <em>beginning</em>, at least.</p>
<p>Podrick, now a knight himself, stayed, his loyalty unwavering. She began to correspond with Queen Sansa as friends, first and foremost, and her life was richer for it. The Kingsguard were good men, not chosen for politics but for their honesty and skill. The men of the small council were difficult, as she had expected, but she had their respect at least, if not always their cooperation. Even Lord Tyrion—</p>
<p> She could not understand the man, and they spoke rarely, but there seemed no malice in his silence and avoidance. Shortly after she had taken her place at the table, she returned to her rooms in the White Sword Tower. It was strange, in the beginning, to see Jaime in small details, to wonder whether he’d placed his hand on the same stones worn smooth, if he’d enjoyed the view from the window, but it had faded quick enough to an occasional pang. She was not thinking of him at all the evening she’d returned to her quarters and found a wrapped sword left upon her table.</p>
<p><em>Ser Brienne</em>, read the accompanying note, <em>It occurs to me that there would be some justice in both swords forged from Ned Stark’s to be used in the defense of his son. Please accept this small gift, and grant it to whom you see fit to wield it. Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King, Lord of Casterly Rock</em>.</p>
<p>She’d unwrapped it, her stomach churning at the damaged hilt. Wondered where it had been recovered, whether it would have been better to… She’d wrapped it again, the silk oddly smooth against her hands, and picked it up. Carried it to the smaller of her chests, and buried it near the bottom, alongside the damaged scabbard that had been given to her with Oathkeeper. It would be unfair to gift the sword to one member of the Kingsguard and not another, and surely there would be a better use. One day, she would face it, but not yet. There was too much still to do.</p>
<p>Jaime Lannister was dead and she was not, and it would not do to dwell.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>"Every other week!" I said. And I meant it. But I finished the chapter I was working on when I posted and the prologue was so short, so here I am with my clown makeup on...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brienne had only been at her post for half a year when the King summoned her to, of all places, a parapet overlooking the harbour. The guards on duty—a second son of a Westerland house and a bastard hedge knight from near Riverrun, both good men—stood at attention at either end of the section of wall, nodding their greeting to their commander but not wavering in their diligence, and Brienne headed towards Bran with no insight as to why he would call for her here. </p>
<p>“Your Grace,” she said, bowing her head. Only slightly; Bran cared little for deference and Brienne cared much for the small rules that kept her authority secure, and so this was their hard-won compromise.</p>
<p>    The King was in a particularly queer mood though, not looking to her as she approached, his eyes focused on some distant horizon. The setting sun had turned the sky shades of orange and gold and pink, and the water was surprisingly calm at this distance. She watched it with him for several silent moments, until he spoke. </p>
<p>    “Did you know, Ser Brienne, that I used to imagine myself a knight?”</p>
<p>    She had, but she shook her head. “I did not, Your Grace.”</p>
<p>    “You are a terrible liar,” he said, a strange half-smirk gracing his face that fell just as easily. “I imagined myself a knight. Brave and just, defender of the innocent. Even after my… injury.” She hated that even now he avoided Jaime’s name, not out of hatred or fear but as if it was some mercy for the grief she could not indulge; she did not think she had heard it once in all her time in King’s Landing. “And now here I am, King of six kingdoms determined to eat themselves alive. If I indulge one, another threatens revolt if they are not indulged more.”</p>
<p>    It was no secret that peace was tenuous and subjected to petty whims and threats, but Brienne did not know why he spoke of it now, to her, here in this place where they could not be overheard. </p>
<p>“Your Grace?”</p>
<p>“I need stronger leaders. I am loath to say so, but the truth of it is that without them, the kingdoms will descend into a state of chaos and the smallfolk will suffer. Greatly.”</p>
<p>“I understand,” she said, though she was not certain she did. The King still saw things others did not, made decisions based not on the facts before him but whatever strange knowledge came to him by other means. </p>
<p>“I have made your father Warden of the East.”</p>
<p>She was ashamed that she could not hide her surprise. “Your Grace?”</p>
<p>    Bran waved a hand. “My cousin Robin is… I cannot look to the Vale on this matter. The Baratheon bastard holds Storm’s End, but he relies too heavily on his castellan to run the castle and lands, nevermind the rest. Selwyn Tarth is as good a choice as any—he has not simpered for favours despite your position, and he is well respected and honourable.”</p>
<p>    She inclined her head once more. “I am sure he will be honoured to serve you, Your Grace,” she said politely.</p>
<p>    “That is not why I have offered it to him though.”</p>
<p>    There was something in the King’s tone that left her unsettled, and she drew herself to full height, touched her sword, glanced around the parapet for some sign of the danger that prickled at her.</p>
<p>    “I am sorry, Ser Brienne,” Bran said, sounding nothing like the young man she knew, “but I must release you from your command.”</p>
<p>    She had misheard him. She was certain she had misheard him. And still she asked, “Pardon, Your Grace?”</p>
<p>    “Your position. With the Kingsguard. I must release you.”</p>
<p>    He couldn’t— “The Kingsguard serve for life.”</p>
<p>    “And sometimes after death,” Bran said, and there was no hint of humour in his words. “But still I must.”</p>
<p>    “I—” Questions crowded her throat, her tongue, and she found she could ask none but, “Has my service been unsatisfactory?”</p>
<p>    “No,” Bran said. “In truth, I have tried to keep you here for my own good for far too long. It comforts my sister to know that you are with me, and it comforts me that there is one person in the city I am certain would only stab me in the back if it was deserved.”</p>
<p>There it was again, the spectre of Jaime Lannister that never quite left but was never fully voiced either. She ignored it when she could, but she thought if ever there came a day… She ignored it when she could, but she dreaded the day she no longer needed to. It was easy here, safe, surrounded by the city he’d lived for so long, the chambers that had once been his—close but not too close, a matter of proximity and not emotion. She could not afford emotion.</p>
<p>    “Your Grace…” she began, uncertain what exactly it was she meant to say.</p>
<p>    “Your father, I am sorry to say, has a year left, perhaps a little more. What I need, more than I need your presence and more than a king can allow himself to <em>want</em> it, is a trusted and competent heir to come after him. One to marry strategically and produce heirs of their own.”</p>
<p>    There was a metallic taste on her tongue, <em>a year left</em>, but she breathed deeply, pushed it aside. There was much to be done, she could not dwell. She had not— She had not given true thought to the matter since he’d promised, he’d <em>promised</em>, that her House had not relied on her. One duty she could set aside, however much the idea had pained her. And she had not regretted it, when she thought of it at all. Her father must have planned to rewed and beget a son, or there was a bastard to legitimise. It did not rest on her.</p>
<p>    “Your Grace, I cannot—”</p>
<p>    “You swore to serve me however I needed you, ser,” Bran said, and Brienne did her best not to say <em>I swore my sword, not my cunt. Not my womb. Not my freedom.</em> But she had, in the end; unknowingly, perhaps, but she had done it all the same. “I would not ask this if I believed there to be another choice. And if you decline…” he sighed. “I will never speak of it to another. This conversation is merely a king and his lord commander, enjoying a fine spring evening.”</p>
<p>“And if I do decline?” she asked, already knowing she would not. Trusting the vows he had sworn to her as much as the ones she’d sworn to him, <em>I will ask nothing to bring you dishonour</em>, though she hated it. </p>
<p>“War, in places that can little afford it. A famine that sweeps through the Stormlands, a wasting sickness in Dorne. Pebbles in the water, rippling out. Your leadership would bring more good than harm. None of the other paths I’ve foreseen have… I would not ask this of you if I was not certain.”</p>
<p>A breeze, light and warm, blew in from the water, carrying with it the salty scent of the sea. Home. Little more than a memory, a feeling of being too big and too small at once, a life that had not sat well in her palms the way a sword did. She closed her eyes and allowed it to surround her. </p>
<p>“You will inherit your father’s titles when the time comes, not your husband,” said Bran. “You will be Ser Brienne to the court, in the books. I’m sorry I cannot offer more.” </p>
<p>Brienne opened her eyes, angled her body to look at the King fully. </p>
<p>“Who am I to marry?”</p>
<p>Bran gave a small shake of his head. “I do not know. I see glimpses, mostly, of the little things. I am sure Lord Tyrion could supply you with a better list than I.” He paused, his head cocking to the side. “If it helps, you are happy. That much I have seen. You have a lovely smile, ser.”</p>
<p>She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “My happiness matters little, in these matters. If it had— It is a luxury few of us can afford.” </p>
<p>Whoever it was, he would be better than her other betrothals. She could promise herself that much. She was a knight, and would be a warden. It was a bigger prize than just a small, obscure island, and would attract better suitors than she had before, and she was not so easily cowed. The pommel of her sword dug into her palm as she gripped it tightly. </p>
<p>“When am I to leave?” she asked.</p>
<p>Bran gave her a sad, knowing smile. “A fortnight hence. It will give you time to make arrangements for your duties in King’s Landing, and reach your father. He will suggest a gathering of men, to ensure you are wed quickly.”</p>
<p>“You’ve seen this?” she asked.</p>
<p>Bran smiled again. “No, I know how fathers think. Even one such as yours.”</p>
<p>It was not the worst option. She could set her terms, see which men would brave them, and take their measure. She bowed, more deeply than usual.</p>
<p>“I will begin making my arrangements tonight. It has been—” she swallowed hard, the life she’d imagined slipping through her fingers as easily as the sun that set beyond the horizon. “It has been a great honour, Your Grace.”</p>
<p>Rising quickly, she strode from the parapet and towards her rooms, where she could weep her silent, bitter tears and never speak of it again. She had her duty to attend to.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>    Brienne had spent years doing her best to grow no real attachment to a place, so she could move on easily when the time came. It was simpler that way. Tarth, with its mountains and valleys, had been all she’d known and yet she had barely looked back when she’d left. Renly’s camps were where she had chosen to be, but she had not mourned them when she’d fled, only her dead king. She had loved the Stark girls, had found a place in Winterfell, but it was not her <em>home</em>. And so she was surprised by the difficulties she found in packing away her life in King’s Landing, the number of bitter goodbyes she sought out, the way she lingered in some places as if to commit the stones to memory. She completed her page in the White Book, a dull end to a short entry—<em>Retired from the Kingsguard at the behest of her King, returning to the island of Tarth.</em> </p>
<p>    Podrick asked to accompany her, even offered to marry her so she would not be subjected to the indignity of wedding a stranger and taking them to bed. There would be no such expectations from him, he assured her. He was a good man, and perhaps the offer would have been tempting in another life, but she knew that the reasons she needed to marry would not be so easily erased. She told him no and asked him to stay with the King, so she could be certain in Bran’s safety, and did not say that there was some part of her that did not <em>want</em> him to see her as she would be on Tarth, soft with time and eventually child, housebound for hours on end for petty duties, bored and restrained. </p>
<p>    The little free time she had was spent copying the same letter to every suitable house with unwed men within a marriageable age. There were nowhere near as many as there had been before the war, but it was still a consuming task. She did not soften her words or pretend at womanly virtues—she would negotiate the terms of her own betrothal, and would not be anything but what she was. She possessed an island, and eventually a wardenship, but it was not for them to rule. She had three broken betrothals, two of them due to her own faults, and she was older than most first-time wives but in good health. Any man who misliked or doubted her right to knighthood would not be welcomed to Tarth, though she managed a more polite phrasing after some effort. </p>
<p>In turn she merely sought a man who would not chafe at his wife’s power and provide heirs, and would not shy away from the responsibilities he would have as consort. Far more important were the advantages that came from the union—men or supplies or alliances bartered for, Brienne and her husband little more than cyvasse pieces in the greater game. Things she might have once sought in a husband could not be afforded; perhaps it would be simpler that way, with no expectations or hope of growing affection. </p>
<p>    The replies came, first from those in King’s Landing and then further afield. Most seemed fine enough men—many declined because they could not travel, citing the needs of their people, and several even asked that she would consider them, if her first inquiries did not lead to a betrothal. Even those who clearly chafed at the terms Brienne had set were courteous, refusing to risk the ire of a close acquaintance of both their King and the Queen of the North. A few came in the affirmative, each one another stone weighing in Brienne’s gut; she folded each of those letters neatly and stored them in a small wooden box, and did her best not to wonder whether this one would be the man she wed. By the time she was due to leave King’s Landing, nine men had accepted her invitation to visit Tarth for courting purposes. </p>
<p>A Northerner who had come south with them had taken the position of Lord Commander, and so Brienne’s last night in King’s Landing was spent in quarters within the Red Keep itself. A feast, small at her request, was held to wish her farewell; the Kingsguard attended, of course, and the Small Council. Smallfolk she knew through her duties had been invited and some had even dared to come. She did her best to smile, though not too widely, and fake delight, though not too much, and she thought perhaps most of them believed her. She did her best to avoid those who would see otherwise: Podrick, who watched her from across the room with such sadness, and Bran who spent all his time telling others how he would not have dismissed Brienne for anything but the greatest need. She didn’t think to avoid Tyrion, so infrequent and estranged their interactions, and so he had no difficulties cornering her upon a balcony when she slipped from the feast to compose herself.</p>
<p>    “It’s a beautiful night,” he said. </p>
<p>    Fast-moving clouds covered most of the sky, shades of black and grey but not the unnatural darkness that had fallen as the dead had marched upon Winterfell. The few glimpses of the moon showed only the smallest sliver, and stars even less. She kept her eyes focused upwards all the same, seeking some familiarity in it, her hands braced against the smooth stone of the balustrade.</p>
<p>    “Lord Tyrion,” she greeted him. They rarely spoke, except on council matters, and there was no need for that now.</p>
<p>    “I am sorry,” he said.</p>
<p>    “For what?”</p>
<p>    She wondered if he meant to apologise for freeing Jaime, or offer some platitudes of how his brother hadn’t <em>intended</em> to bed and abandon her, now that she was to leave. But no, that would mean speaking his name and no one ever did. Instead Tyrion gave some vague answer of losing her insights on the council and how Lord Bronn would be impossible to control now, and she sighed.</p>
<p>    “No man would have been asked this,” she said, eyes still on the sky. From inside, the sounds of her feast drifted out, distorted and muffled. “We both know it. Do give me the courtesy of not pretending otherwise.”</p>
<p>Tyrion grunted in agreement.</p>
<p>“The suitors,” he said. “If you wish… If I can aid your decision in any way, even if it is inquiring about their reputations, do let me know?”</p>
<p> Her fingers curled, scraping against the stone, the pressure enough she could feel the rough beneath the smooth. </p>
<p>    “I will make my own choice,” she said. </p>
<p>    “Of course, it is only—”</p>
<p>    “Lord Tyrion,” she snapped, “desist. I cannot—I cannot grow attached to any one man before I meet him. Affection may grow, though I dare not hope for it, but this must be a decision made by reason. There is too much at risk if I do not.”</p>
<p>    “So the King says,” Tyrion said, dryly. “One would think he could be more forthcoming.”</p>
<p>    Insufferable, arrogant man. “He has told me what he knows,” Briienne defended. “I must wed. My husband will solidify my authority and bring more in line. He does not know who, or what political quagmire it will resolve—The Seven know there are enough of them, at the moment—just that it is important.”</p>
<p>Tyrion grunted again, and Brienne pushed off the parapet to spin and face him, her arms folded.</p>
<p>“Say it, if you must.”</p>
<p>Tyrion raised his hands in surrender. “You are worth more than a trade route, or grain.”</p>
<p>“No, I’m not,” she replied bitterly. “Not to those who would suffer if I did not do this. I will meet the men and dismiss those who will make for misery, I am selfish enough for that, and of the rest I will weigh their offers. Please do not— I will make my choice, and hope.”</p>
<p>He opened his mouth as if to speak again, but she did not wait for his words. With a final, terse <em>Lord Tyrion</em> and a bow of her head, Brienne headed back inside.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The journey to Tarth was uneventful—it was the beginning of the storm season and Brienne was prepared for a tumultuous few days, but other than grey skies and fortuitous winds there was little to distract her from the mundanity of the hours upon hours at sea. Well used to the water, she still spent most of her time in her cabin, using the light of a tallow candle to go over the names and histories of the men who would join her on Tarth at the turn of the moon. She had hoped to find some obvious resolution to her search, some man who was so clearly the right choice that this was all a formality, but she did not have a head for politics and could see no better than she had before. </p>
<p>From time to time she would pull Queen Sansa’s last letter from her bag and read that instead, finding some small comfort in her dear friend’s words of commiseration. She did not actively speak against her brother’s choices, but Brienne knew enough to read sympathy in her recounting of men who sought her hand, and advice in the considerations Sansa set for her own choice. <em>I will not abide a man who belittles how I spend my free hours, precious as they are</em>, she had written, before telling Brienne of an embroidered piece she worked on; <em>A man who does not understand the value of no is good for neither woman nor kingdom, and if I must contrive such circumstances as to test it, I cannot afford to do otherwise</em>. Brienne read and reread them, her heart breaking for Sansa, alone in the North. There was a loneliness in her words, a vain sort of desperation not to wed at all, and many times Brienne took her own parchment and quill and tried to begin a reply. The words never came.</p>
<p>On the fourth day, the first sight of Tarth came on the horizon and Brienne—after ensuring her possessions were packed and easy to access—headed aboveboard to watch it take shape. Spring had made the island green and luscious, even at a distance, and the waters were blue despite the clouded sky. From here it seemed untouched by man, by the war and death and grief that had been her last few years, and just for a moment Brienne imagined that she might find peace and happiness there after all, different though it would be to the life she had left behind. It was not an illusion that lasted—soon enough she could see the shining white of Evenfall Hall high upon the cliffs, the lighthouse on the point, and shortly after that the squat, square homes of the village that had sprung up around the docks, and it was simply a place like any other, for good and bad; the responsibility of peace and happiness was in her hands, not in her surroundings.</p>
<p>    The ship docked in the late afternoon, coming in with the tide, and as the sailors knotted ropes and laid the gangplank Brienne headed belowdecks to grab her belongings, packed in two chests and a small bag. Such a meagre life, in the end. Her retreat was not, she insisted if only to herself, to avoid searching for those who may or may not be waiting on the dock to greet her.</p>
<p>    It bought her only a few moments, but it was enough time to shed any last vestiges of sentiment or naivety. This would be a battlefield of its own, or perhaps it merely helped to think of it as such, and to reveal herself too early would do no good. She secured Oathkeeper to her waist, mourning the scabbard it had been gifted to her in as she did; it had been damaged, shortly after arriving in King’s Landing, and not worth the attempt to repair. It had been replaced soon enough with one to match her Kingsguard armor, in any case, but she had no right to that now and so she’d bought a simple leather scabbard from a vendor in King’s Landing. It was a poor replacement.</p>
<p>    When she disembarked the ship, it took her only a moment to spy her father, resplendent in a blue surcoat and flanked by members of the household she recognised and a few she did not; his hair was thinner, she thought, and when he moved towards her the limp he’d had all her life was more pronounced, but other than that he seemed as unchanged as the island around them and she found it impossible to believe Bran’s words of his mortality.</p>
<p>    “Have you grown, my girl?” he asked, his voice booming across the docks ahead of him.</p>
<p>    “I was five-and-twenty when I left, father, and long done growing,” she said, biting back a small smile at the familiar question. Her father had never seen a problem with her height even when she had. </p>
<p>    “Nonsense, I’m sure you’re taller,” he said, waving a hand as he came to embrace her; she stiffened instinctively, and he released her and pulled back to study her face. Whatever it was he saw made his smile falter, but he quickly hid it behind his usual jovial expression as he clapped her shoulder. “Welcome home, Brienne.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    Brienne turned from her father to greet the household staff that had accompanied him; most of them had come to the village on castle business and wished to greet the Lady Brienne upon her return home. It was well meant, she knew, and so she did her best not to wince at the title.</p>
<p>When she was done, Brienne turned her attention to the shadow of Evenfall Hall in the middle distance. She shifted her bag onto her shoulder, intending to hike up the well-worn and familiar path that cut steep and narrow up the cliff, when her father caught her arm and nodded to the main road of the village. He had  brought a carriage down, a concession to his limp—”It’s the blasted weather,” he told her quietly as they approached it, though there was nothing remarkable about the weather at all—despite it making the journey significantly longer, and after fastening her bags and chest on the back, Brienne dutifully took her seat beside him. </p>
<p>    “Out with it then, girl,” he said once they were both seated and the door closed behind them. “You look as if you’re attending your own funeral.”</p>
<p>    Before Brienne could formulate a reply, the carriage door opened again and a woman clambered in. Brienne’s first thought was that her father’s women had gotten bold in her absence, and her second was that at least this one was not younger than she was. It was only when the woman adjusted her skirts just so with a sneer on her lips that Brienne realised that it was—</p>
<p>    “Septa Roelle,” she said coolly. “I was not aware you were still on Tarth.”</p>
<p>    “Brienne…” her father warned. “The septa is staying in Evenfall for the time being. It will do you good to have a woman’s insight in the coming weeks.”</p>
<p>    “I will keep my own counsel, thank you,” she said curtly, and silence fell as the carriage began to move.</p>
<p>    Studiously staring out the window, Brienne did her best to ignore the other woman entirely. It did not work; no matter how firmly Brienne tried to train her eyes on the village—the inn had a new sign and there were a few more houses than she remembered, but it was still largely unchanged—she could see Roelle in the periphery. The septa was younger than she had seemed to Brienne as a child, who had known her as a terrifying authority she could not please; while there were streaks of white, Roelle’s hair was still mostly blonde, and the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes were as much from the sun as age. She could not be more than five-and-fifty, perhaps less. Her clothes were still painfully neat, well-made and austere save for the small gathering of lace at her wrists, but the hem was faded and the sleeves carefully mended twice over. It was odd to see that she was simply a woman, and Brienne redoubled her efforts to focus on the world outside the carriage.</p>
<p>They had reached the base of the cliff Evenfall Hall was built upon, and the carriage bumped slightly as it turned onto the road worn more by horse and cart than the fine carriage her father had only ever used to greet guests. The cliff rose steeply, and so the road wound across the hill to make the climb easier; it was a beautiful view, low scrub bush replaced by both evergreens and trees just beginning to bud, a cacophony of greens and browns that felt strange after the greys and whites of winter and then the yellow stone of King’s Landing. Brienne caught sight of rabbits and birds, a russet-coloured squirrel scampering between branches, a doe and her fawn in the distance. Still they did not speak.</p>
<p>Afternoon had shifted into twilight by the time they arrived at Evenfall Hall, lights casting a yellow glow upon the stones of the gate and the buildings beyond as Brienne climbed from the carriage.The heavy metal shutters to block the storms were all open, and the castle hummed with a quiet liveliness. Beyond it she could see the stables and the kennels, and decided her first task on the morrow would be to borrow a mount and ride towards the larger village an hour north, where horses were bought and sold—if she could not find one to satisfy herself there, she would send a message to Storm’s End with her requirements. </p>
<p>She moved around the back of the carriage, meaning to grab her belongings, only to find a footman had already taken them.</p>
<p>“Please, bring it to Lady—Ser Brienne’s room,” her father said, and the footman bowed and headed indoors. Not that her father paid him much mind; he had turned his attention to his daughter. “Brienne, we must speak.” </p>
<p>It was a familiar command, and she found herself responding as she always had without thinking. “Yes, father.”</p>
<p>    She followed him indoors, up the great staircase and across the gallery, and then into his study which overlooked the ocean. There was enough light that she could see the shape of the ship still in the harbour and the smaller boats used for fishing through the windows, and she moved to be closer. </p>
<p>    “Please, sit,” her father said, gesturing, and Brienne paused. “Would you care for some wine?”</p>
<p>    Brienne shook her head and sat in a chair, shifting her sword slightly as she did so.</p>
<p>    Selwyn sighed. “There is no need to wear that here.”</p>
<p>    “I wear it everywhere.”</p>
<p>    “Brienne…”</p>
<p>    She didn’t give him a chance to decide what he meant to say. “Why is Roelle here?”</p>
<p>    “<em>Septa</em> Roelle has nowhere else to be. She cannot return to the mainland—”</p>
<p>    “Did she make the wrong lord’s child miserable?” Brienne snapped. </p>
<p>    Her father looked surprised, though he didn’t respond to the insinuation. “It is not my story to tell,” he said dismissively. “This is about you. Are you certain this plan to invite your suitors is the best way forward?”</p>
<p>    Brienne breathed deeply, once, twice. </p>
<p>    “I do not have time for a protracted courtship, father,” she said, and <em>Not if you wish to see the grandchild that will secure our house</em>, she did not. It would not have been a consideration if she had known... “And it would not increase my chances of success if I did, so it is best to get it over with.”</p>
<p>    “You know I would—”</p>
<p>    “Don’t,” she said. After the last betrothal he had said that she ought to wed for love, if she could not make herself content with less, and it had been a balm on so many long nights, that her father might not have understood her, but he had not wished for her to bend on this matter, had not wished for her to cut herself down solely for duty. “The choice is no longer about my happiness, and I would prefer not to… Please, don’t.”</p>
<p>    Her father shook his head, and sat heavily in his chair. “What happened to you on the mainland?”</p>
<p>    <em>War. Grief. Love. Take your pick.</em></p>
<p>“I merely reconsidered my choices,” she said.</p>
<p>He did not believe her, and rightfully so, but he sighed and did not quarrel.</p>
<p>    “Very well,” he said. “The kitchens have begun to prepare for the welcoming feast, all of Tarth’s delicacies that are in season. We have hunting parties arranged and entertainment coming from the mainland—”</p>
<p>    “This is too much,” she objected. </p>
<p>    “You are daughter to the Warden of the East, and will hold the title in your own right eventually,” he said firmly, then smiled. “We had thought to have a tourney, but you would likely defeat them all.”</p>
<p>    Brienne gave him a smile in return and hoped it was not strained. That would be a point in its favour, in her opinion, to know which men would not turn petulant at defeat, but it was hardly as if she could say so—there was no time to arrange a tournament, and it would be too ostentatious a choice even if there was. </p>
<p>    “Thank you,” she said, voice level as she rose from her seat. “I’m sure our guests will find Tarth welcoming indeed. But you must excuse me, I should attend to my possessions.”</p>
<p>    Her father nodded, and did not stand to escort her to the door. She slipped from the study as lightly as she could, feeling more a chastised child than a woman grown, and headed towards the family quarters. It was odd how many long-forgotten details came back to her as she moved—there was the stone that had been chipped by a particularly strong strike of her morningstar, and there was the portrait of a great-aunt who had been Evenstar and then died a not-particularly-old maid. The door to her mother’s rooms still bore the tapestry she had made as a young bride, a beautifully woven image of the Tarth crest. </p>
<p>    When Brienne reached her childhood rooms, the heavy oaken door was ajar, and when she pushed it open further she could see that it had remained similarly untouched—the bed was new, but in the same style, and the poorly embroidered cushion Brienne had spent a moon’s turn on still sat upon the chair near the fireplace. She had put away her toys long before she had left Tarth, of course, but it felt as if she might turn to find her old doll upon the bed pillows, or her old tin knight beneath the table. Stepping inside the room, she shut the door and moved towards the bed; it dipped beneath her weight as she sat upon it, hands on her knees, eyes fixed on the wall. </p>
<p>    She remained there until long after the supper bell had rung. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>    If Brienne had imagined she could spend the first few days of her return reacquainting herself with the island, she was sorely mistaken; other than her purchase of a horse—a pretty chestnut mare well-built for Tarth’s sometimes difficult terrain, more modest than destrier or courser, but infinitely more practical for her current purposes—Brienne rarely managed to get further than the gates of Evenfall Hall, her days taken up with a series of unending demands. Her father wished to go over the shipping records with her. A tailor and a seamstress had both been summoned to fill her wardrobe, now that she had need of clothes suited for more than fighting. Her input of flowers for the welcome feast was desired. </p>
<p>    By the time her first suitor arrived ten days later, it was almost a relief to don a split skirt and tunic and ride down to the docks to greet him. He was a Dornish man named Albin, third brother to the new head of House Martell and fifth in line. Brienne knew him, vaguely—he had been with the Prince’s retinue during the summit when Bran was elected king, and they’d shared a few words here and there. She had been surprised by his acceptance: the Dornish were one of the greatest sources of unrest within the kingdoms, disgusted with years of broken promises and seeing little advantage to playing at niceties. It was not so much rebellion as a determination to do as they wished, a sort of stubbornness that Brienne might have appreciated if it had not sown dissent so easily. But as Albin disembarked from the ship, he bowed and smiled with a sincerity that did not feel forced, and eyed Oathkeeper at her waist with curiosity.</p>
<p>    “I should greatly like to see you use it, Lady Brienne,” he said, when she caught him looking. “Your sword against my spear.”</p>
<p>    It was not the greeting she had expected, but she could not deny it was more intriguing. “And if I win?”</p>
<p>    Albin shrugged. “Then I hope you will do me the honour of fighting again. I do enjoy a challenge.”</p>
<p>    “Perhaps,” she said, smiling despite herself. “Welcome to Tarth, Prince Albin.”  </p>
<p>    While the prince’s trunks were set aside to be brought up to Evenfall in the kitchen cart, the two of them decided to walk back to the castle via the shorter route; it was a surprisingly pleasant journey, with Albin content enough to follow Brienne and pause from time to time to remark on the scenery—it was different to Dorne, he said, but really quite beautiful. Brienne paused, twisting her mare’s reins in her hand without meaning to, and forced a smile.</p>
<p>    “Quite,” she said, moving up the packed dirt path once more. “Perhaps I will see Dorne myself one day.”</p>
<p>    If that meeting had gone better than she had expected, the message that arrived at Evenfall that afternoon which said three suitors would arrive by ship with the evening high tide went worse: determined to meet them all at their ships and not once they had crossed the walls of her home, Brienne rode down to the docks despite the rain, cloak drawn close, only to discover that she knew the men. She had not recognised the names when their acceptances had arrived, but all three of them had been in Renly’s camp at the same time she had. Two of them were called Myles—the taller of the two hailed from house Musgood, and the shorter was a Tudbury cousin—and the third man was Pearse Toyne, last of his mostly-disgraced house. </p>
<p>She did not remember them <em>well</em>, and she bore them no ill will, but it was an odd reminder, made odder by the way they steadfastly ignored the obvious connection in favour of generic pleasantries. None of them were particularly advantageous matches in their own right, she recalled, but if Albin brought the hope of binding Dorne more closely, they all brought the possibility of securing her position as Warden amongst her own people. No suitors were to come from the Vale, and she would need to court the support of the other Houses of the Stormlands if she wished to be treated as anything but an interloper taking a position that was not hers by rights.     </p>
<p>    “Your trunks can be stored at the inn,” she said, once pleasantries had been exchanged., “and will be brought up on the morrow.”</p>
<p>    The men looked between themselves, and then turned to her. A particularly cold rivulet of rain fell in her eye, and she did not blink or wipe it away. </p>
<p>    “We’ll stay with them then, if it’s all the same to you,” said one of the Myles, a hint of condescending joviality in his tone that set Brienne’s teeth on edge. “Weather like this, a good ale and some soup seems much more palatable than a hike in the dark.”</p>
<p> <em>And fleas in the bed, though that’s alright if it means less work</em>, Brienne thought, biting back the instinct to send all three away just as quickly as they’d come. It would make her own journey faster, and so she nodded and said she would return at midday with the carriage. </p>
<p>The ride back was difficult, and would no doubt be more so come morning if the rain continued, though it was as yet mild for the storm season. Brienne kept her head ducked low and urged her horse forward, pleased to discover that the mare was as sure-footed and steady as she had seemed when Brienne bought her. She ought to give her a name, but nothing she had thought of had quite suited and Brienne had larger concerns; still, when she did arrive back to a shuttered Evenfall Hall, she took the time to groom and warm the poor creature herself before sneaking through the kitchen doors in the hopes of not being seen in her bedraggled state.</p>
<p>It didn’t work. Moments after slipping from the warmth of the kitchen, with its huge fires and bustling activity as they prepared for dinner, Brienne ran into Prince Albin as he exited the library.</p>
<p>“Lady Brienne!” he said. “I was not aware you were back.”</p>
<p>“Only just now,” she replied, well aware she was still dripping water upon the marble floors.</p>
<p>“And your other guests?” </p>
<p>Brienne looked at him for a moment, searching for some hint that he was asking for some ulterior purpose—to mock her, or claim advantage over them so early—but he seemed to merely be polite. </p>
<p>“They chose to stay at the inn near the docks,” Brienne said.</p>
<p>Albin frowned, briefly, then smiled. “Well, I am glad I arrived this morning.” He bowed. “I shall enjoy your company at dinner undisturbed. I heard that you once defeated the younger Clegane in a fight, and I must admit that I’m <em>terribly</em> curious.”</p>
<p>He said it with such ease, such <em>charm</em>, all white teeth and laughter, and yet she could only give him a strained smile in return. “Then I ought to dress for dinner,” she said. “I imagine the bell will ring soon enough.”</p>
<p>Ducking her head, she strode with whatever dignity she could muster towards her rooms. When she arrived and had dried herself as best she could, she opened her wardrobe and stared at the gowns and skirts made for her; she felt no guilt when she reached for trousers and jerkin instead.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The rain did end in the earliest hours of the morning though the sky remained grey, and after breaking her fast in her rooms Brienne headed out to the courtyard, intending to join the carriage as it journeyed down to the docks. The shorter route would be nigh-impassable with the mud, though it was early enough in the year it was probably spared rockfall at least, and in truth Brienne ought to have ridden <em>in</em> the carriage to avoid the splatters of mud on her boots. But with three men on the return journey she thought it best to leave as much room as possible; that horseback would grant her some precious solitude was an unintended but welcome advantage.  </p>
<p>Her father was in the courtyard when she came out of the stables; he looked from her horse to her sword, and opened his mouth before closing it again. Brienne turned away, checking the girth of her saddle before mounting; by the time she had, her father was gone, and she rode out. </p>
<p>    There was something refreshing in the air the first few hours after rainfall, and as Brienne guided her mare through Evenfall’s gates she breathed deeply and focused on the land around her. Fog lay heavily in the distance, shrouding both mountain and valley, and far below she could hear the choppy waves as they crashed against the cliffs. It was a lonely sort of beauty, Tarth, far from the rest of the world on mornings like this. </p>
<p>    From time to time her mind drifted to dinner the night before—Albin had been surprisingly pleasant company, and he’d kept his questions about Tarth directed at Brienne and not her father. It was a welcome discovery—she had no intention of allowing men to speak for her, but though she had been clear in her letters on this front it was still a fight she had anticipated. Even in King’s Landing it had felt, when she’d brought one proposal or another to the table in a Small Council meeting, that it was not taken seriously until one of the men supported it. Initiatives to feed the smallfolk and provide medical care had been attributed to Samwell Tarly though it was Brienne’s roamings of the city that had made the need clear; reform of the Goldcloaks had been left in her hands and yet feet had been dragged until the Master of Laws spoke. It was not that the men did not <em>respect</em> her—her relationship with each of them was strained or complicated in one way or another, but she was respected well enough. They were unaccustomed to women like her, however; it was one thing to serve a queen, another to allow a woman into the secret places where true power was wielded. Still, Albin had shown a general disinclination towards the habit—an unforeseen advantage to the Dornish absolute primogeniture, perhaps—and he’d been pleasant enough.  </p>
<p>    That she did not <em>want </em>pleasant, found it exhausting and vague more often than not, was another matter entirely, and not a preference she could afford. She reined her horse in, encouraging the mare to move to the side of the road so the carriage could go ahead of them on the first curve. When it had, Brienne nudged her into a slow walk once more and refused to think of pleasant men at dinners and stubborn men at councils and foolish men at inns; the weather was changeable and the track ahead of her required her attention.</p>
<p>    It was a good thing she’d ridden down—when she entered the common room of the inn she found not three but <em>four </em>suitors: Ralf Harlaw of the Iron Islands had docked his small ship shortly before she’d arrived, and he rose from the table to swagger towards her and bow deeply.</p>
<p>    “Ser Brienne,” he said. “I had not imagined I would have the pleasure of your company again so soon.”</p>
<p>    He’d been in the capital with Yara Greyjoy a few months before, a churlish man that Yara had spoken of highly despite his general disinclination to play courtly games. Brienne had not particularly enjoyed his visit—he was not lecherous or cruel, just not someone she enjoyed conversing with—but when his name had arisen she had remembered Yara’s regard and issued the invitation; perhaps she had expected him to decline, even after his assent had returned via raven, because his presence surprised her.</p>
<p>    “Lord Ralf,” she said politely. “Was your journey pleasant?”</p>
<p>    “Until I met up with these cunts,” he said with a jerk of his head. “You’d think Stormlanders wouldn’t bitch so much about the rain.”</p>
<p>    Brienne faltered—in half a breath she knew she could not allow such an insult against her guests to stand, regardless of her own feelings, but she did not have the quick wit in this regard. Then the three men burst into laughter and she exhaled quickly, releasing her grip on Oathkeeper’s hilt. </p>
<p>“The carriage is outside,” she said. “I have business to attend to, but if you bring your bags my man will ensure they are all loaded and then we can leave for Evenfall by midday.”</p>
<p>Bowing to the four men, she strode from the inn and headed down the main road of the village. It was a haphazard place, built to support the port more than anything else, and in truth most of what Brienne wanted would be better sought elsewhere, but what she wanted <em>most </em>was to be away for a few moments. She stopped by the fletcher’s to ask about the delivery of arrows for the hunts her father had arranged, and stood outside the smithy for some time, finding a strange sort of comfort in the rhythmic clang of hammer against iron; the blacksmith eventually came out to ask if she had need of him, and she shook her head.</p>
<p>“No, thank you,” she said, and then an impulse struck her and she touched her sword. “Actually, I do have one request.”</p>
<p>It was likely beyond the skill of this man, at least to the standard she would truly wish it done, but within half an hour she had placed a commission and paid with stags from her purse; if it did not satisfy her, she could reach out to Gendry in Storm’s End—he would probably enjoy the excuse to craft one, or know who best to speak with. Until then, this would do. </p>
<p>Oddly appeased, she returned to the carriage and ensured the men were settled before mounting her horse. She had intended to ride up the long route, but as they headed towards the edge of the village an ornery urge had her turning onto the other.</p>
<p>“I’ll go this way,” she called out to the coachman, jerking her head to where the small path began to climb. “There might be rocks on the path, and we’ll need to clear them if there are.”</p>
<p>Without waiting for a reply, she headed up and through the mud. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter Three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Two quick notes:</p>
<p>(1) One of the suitors mentioned (Hugh Beesbury) was, in book canon, involved in the bet on Brienne's virginity. This Hugh did not, but by the time I noticed the naming coincidence I was too attached to the name to change it. He's an insufferable twat for other reasons, and there might be nods to his canon actions. But no bet. </p>
<p>(2) I know a few people have told me via other avenues that, for them, they really need Roelle to be a villain who faces her comeuppance. That's not where this fic is going; it doesn't shy away from the fact that Roelle was an abusive character in Brienne's life (at least by our standards), but it is more about how abuse is cyclical and sometimes we can perpetuate it in our attempts not to. If that's going to be triggering for you, it might be best to stop reading. It's a really emotionally-laden topic, and I want people to be aware of where it's going.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    The next man to arrive—the following morning, it seemed there was to be no reprieve—was Theo Lychester, nephew and heir to a Riverlands lord who had sided with the Lannisters during the siege at Riverrun, or so Bran had informed her when he’d seen that particular letter.</p>
<p>    “I’ve no desire to discuss politics,” Brienne had said, too quickly, too stiffly, an echo of a conversation long past. “And he was not the one to make that choice. You cannot expect him to act against his house.”</p>
<p>    “No?” Bran had asked.</p>
<p>    “No.” She would not— “Perhaps this is a good chance to bind his loyalties to <em>this</em> Crown.”</p>
<p>    Bran had nodded. “Very well. Is he old enough to shave?”</p>
<p>    It was a joke, the sly sort of one that Bran would make from time to time, and Brienne had had to bite back a smile. </p>
<p>“He is only a few moons younger than yourself, Your Grace.”</p>
<p> When Theo descended from his ship, all youthful gangly arms and legs, Brienne wondered if it had been a joke at all. He seemed a nice enough young man, from his conversation as they headed to the castle, but there was no denying he <em>was</em> young—not just in age, but his sweet naivety underscored how very little these last years of wars had reached some, and scarred others. She nearly sent him home before they even reached Evenfall Hall, but knew that to do so would cause great offense—girls younger than he were wed often for political advantage, and that he made her feel old was not reason enough to decline. </p>
<p>    After ensuring Theo was shown his rooms for the duration of his stay, Brienne claimed pressing island matters and made her escape before any of the men had mind to corner her for more discussion. She had told them that she intended to give all suitors an equal opportunity to court her—not untrue—and that it would be unfair to spend much time together before all had arrived, but still some pressed their luck. She spoke to her father, to ensure he did not have real need of her, then she slipped down to the kitchens, taking the longer route to avoid where Septa Roelle was lying in wait, and begged some food from the head cook.</p>
<p>    “You best be back for dinner,” Myna said firmly, though she hastily wrapped enough cheese and bread and dried fruits to last Brienne several days, and handed it to her with a wink. “It would be a shame to miss all those men vying for your hand. I trust your breakfast was delivered safely?”</p>
<p>    Myna had been decrying the uselessness of men since Brienne was a small child, and there was something comforting that of all the things that had not changed on Tarth, this was amongst them.</p>
<p>    “Still hot,” Brienne confirmed, “and delicious as always, Myna. I imagine I will be dining in my room often.”</p>
<p>    “You’re a busy woman, Lady Brienne,” Myna said sagely, then smiled. “It’s only practical.”</p>
<p>    “Thank you.” Brienne paused, not quite eager to risk offense to one of the few people who did not seem set against her, then added, “But it’s Ser Brienne, if it’s all the same to you.”</p>
<p>    Myna looked at her, and nodded slowly. “I’ll make sure the rest of the girls know.”</p>
<p>    Relieved, Brienne thanked her once more and headed out the door and towards the stables. She quickly saddled her mare and rode out of the gates; she had meant to head towards the larger village, but rode east instead, through a few small settlements and towards the base of the nearest mountain. She knew she did not have time to ride much further than that, but there was a small clearing she used to escape to as a child, sneaking her pony from the stables and grabbing a tourney sword—surely the stablemaster had known of it, but he had never said, nor had the grooms that worked for him.</p>
<p>It was quiet here, the trees shielding any noise or notice that might come from the road up the mountain, and one edge was bordered by a stream that ran clear and crisply cold even in the height of summer; she sat on the large flat rock where it moved from mountain to clearing and slipped her boots off, dipping her toes into the water and tilting her head back to watch the sky. The immensity of the mountain climbing high on her left was calming, in its way, an inevitability that had outlasted men and nations and all the little troubles that she faced. </p>
<p>It was another grey day, but Brienne would rather risk a downpour than odious company. She ate her food and watched the birds wheeling high above, and when she grew restless she rose and ran through forms with her sword. Some of the largest trees still bore scars from her blunted tourney blade and youthful indiscretions, but she refrained from adding to them. When the sky had darkened enough that she could only conclude it was late afternoon, she lingered awhile longer; it was well into dusk when she returned to Evenfall, and the boy at the stables told her her father had been looking for her. </p>
<p>Rather than risk crossing paths with him—he would look at her and she would read the confusion he tried to mask, and then he’d say something well-intended and yet unbearable that she must bear—she headed to the smallest of the practice yards on the far side of the castle grounds. There were three—one a traditional open yard, and two indoors. The latter were enclosed so training was not deferred due to weather, with glass inlaid in the ceiling to allow for natural light. They were her favourite places in Evenfall, and the smaller of them the likeliest place to find solitude; servants rarely had need to be there, and the household guards preferred the larger one for their drills. </p>
<p>It was not empty, to her surprise; a tall man was testing the weight of a training sword in his hand, striking a dummy, and then weighing it again before moving onto the next. Brienne watched him for a few moments, trying to place him—he wasn’t one of the household guards, she’d met them all shortly after returning and none had the bright copper hair this man did. A man from the household, perhaps, who fancied himself a swordsman, but his actions were too assured for that. When he had gone through most of the swords on the rack, she could not bear it any longer.</p>
<p>“If you have issue with our training swords, you should speak to the master-at-arms,” she said, arms crossed over her chest.</p>
<p>The man turned, his eyes widening for only half a breath before he masked it.</p>
<p>“No issue,” he said with a smile, a soft burr to his voice that surprised her. “You can tell a lot about people by the state of their weapons.”</p>
<p>Not a servant then. </p>
<p>“And what do ours say?”</p>
<p>“They’re worn enough, but well-balanced,” the man said, every word measured. “Good craftsmanship is valued over flash, and you don’t let your men’s training slide.”</p>
<p>“Who says they are my men?”</p>
<p>The man set aside the sword in his hand and moved towards her, and as he drew closer she realised he must—</p>
<p>“Which one are you?” she asked, horrified at the bluntness even as it left her mouth.</p>
<p>He laughed as he stopped and bowed. “Addam Marbrand, ser. Of Ashemark.”</p>
<p>She tried to recall what she knew of him. Heir to his house. A widower with one child, a boy of about fifteen. Well-regarded by those who knew him. From the Westerlands. And in her home without her knowledge, judging her armory and…</p>
<p>“Brienne, of Tarth,” she said, as if there was any doubt. “I apologise, ser, I had not realised you had arrived.”</p>
<p>“That was because I did not bother to send word,” he said. “It was no trouble to make my own way here.”</p>
<p>“Oh. I…” she did not know what to say, and so settled on, “Still, I am sorry I did not greet you properly. I had taken my horse out, you see, to...”</p>
<p>“There is no offense,” he said easily, giving a roll of his shoulders. “I was told this yard would be empty, but I can take my leave if you wish to use it.” </p>
<p>True to his word, he began to move again, clearing intending to pass her, but as he did she flinched; it was shameful and instinctual, here in this once-sanctuary, though she hoped she’d hid it well. He stepped back.</p>
<p>“I’ve no…” Whatever easiness there had been in his posture was gone as he raised his hands. He was silent for a long moment and Brienne watched him, waiting for some hint of her opponent’s intentions in his eyes, dark in the dusk, or in the curve of his mouth, the way he held himself. He rubbed his jaw, and sighed. “I did not come to court you,” he finally said. </p>
<p>Brienne stiffened. “Ser—”</p>
<p>“No, I— My wife died of a fever when our son was only small. I’m sure you know this, to have issued the invitation at all. I loved her. Deeply. Passionately. She was…” He swallowed. “I loved her, and it seemed not half a year had passed before people began to speak of my next wife.”  </p>
<p>Her brow furrowed. “I don’t… I am sorry, for your loss, but I do not understand why you are here if not for…”</p>
<p>“I squired at Casterly Rock,” he said, hastily. Pained. “When Jaime was a boy.”</p>
<p>“Oh.”</p>
<p>She’d known this, distantly, that the Marbrands were connected to the Lannisters. Known and forgotten, or refused to give importance to.</p>
<p>“Yes, well, there’s no advantage to marrying me,” Ser Addam pressed on, though she could only half listen. “The Westerlands are bound well enough to the Crown through Tyrion, and I’ve my own people to tend to. But my father yet lives and my son takes on more tasks, and I thought… I thought if you did not have the company of a familiar face, you could at least have a friendly one in these coming weeks. The King’s decision to— I was surprised to hear of it, and more surprised to hear that you had returned alone.”   </p>
<p>She wished she could tell him to leave, the yard and Tarth both, tell him that whatever he had supposed was wrong, that she was pleased to be here and not in King’s Landing where she had— She wished she could tell him to leave, hated it, hated his presence and his presumptions and how badly she wanted to know more, wanted to bask in the exquisite painfulness of this acknowledgement, this <em>grief</em>, even as she wanted to hide it.</p>
<p>“Are you any good with the sword?” she asked, jerking her head to the neatly stacked rack he’d been examining.</p>
<p>“Fair enough.”</p>
<p>“A match, then?” she asked. </p>
<p>She wished she could tell him to leave, but asked him to stay, and grasped for shadows that would burn away in the noonday sun.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>    Brienne’s avoidance did not work for long—her father summoned her to his study the following morning, and when she entered it was to find he sat behind the enormous oak desk, his fingers steepled. When she stood before him, he sighed. </p>
<p>    “You disappeared yesterday.”</p>
<p>    “I didn’t—” She bit back her protest and stood even taller, a dutiful daughter. “I apologise, father.”</p>
<p>    “You chose to invite these men to seek your hand, Brienne, not I.”</p>
<p>    “It seemed....” <em>tolerable</em>, she could not say. “Advisable. Efficient.”</p>
<p>    He raised a hand to his forehead, rubbing slowly; she saw how his fingers curled too much. “I don’t understand this sudden need of yours to wed at all. You seemed content enough with the Kingsguard.”</p>
<p>    “I can best serve my king and house here,” she said, and wished she did not sound quite so flat as she did.</p>
<p>    “And that’s all?”</p>
<p>    “What else could there be?”</p>
<p>    Another sigh. His knuckles were red, and swollen, she noticed. “Do you know, Brienne, that the day you were laid in my arms, I felt the most wonderful relief?”</p>
<p>    Her parents had lost babes before her, she knew, and a living child—even a girl with no grace or manners to speak of—was a gift.</p>
<p>    “It was hope, for the House,” she said, and her father sighed.</p>
<p>    “It was,” he agreed, “but I had no thoughts of legacy in that moment. I only knew that I would brave any storm for you, fight any foe. It was <em>love</em>. And I have not… Is it so wrong to wish that for you? If not your husband, then your children at least.”</p>
<p>    “Yes.”</p>
<p>    “Yes?”</p>
<p>    There was a hope in his eyes, and she hated that she must—</p>
<p>“Yes, it is too much to hope. I cannot— I found my happiness by other means. And I must give those up for this, and I cannot regret it because I know it is the right thing, but I cannot forget it either. No babe suckling on the breast will alter it.”</p>
<p>    She had, once, thought— There’d been a dream of a child, of a marriage that was more than convenience, of a life where she could be all the things she wished at once, but it had been only a dream in the end, lost to duties long before this one.  </p>
<p>    “Brienne….”</p>
<p>    “It is no matter, father. I will be mindful not to disappear again, and be more courteous to our guests.”</p>
<p>    He sighed, and waved his hand. “I will see you at lunch.”</p>
<p>    She bowed and took her leave, and went to see if there had yet been word on the arrival of her last guests. Both were expected on the morrow, and Brienne did her best to be a considerate, though distant, host for the rest of the day; her father would have no reason to despair of her, she would be certain. </p>
<p>She did not repeat her conversation with Ser Addam or allow him to be too near; it had been a weakness, a lonely impulse that had exposed her soft underbelly and could not be borne. She would not do it again. She ensured he had been given comfortable rooms, and perhaps spoke quietly to Myna to make sure he was well cared for—his intentions had been kind, if misguided, and kindness was in short supply. He, in turn, did not seek her out or avoid her, and was the picture of propriety when their paths did cross. The same could not be said of some of the other men—the two Myles hounded her for a chance to spar, claiming a desire to see her as she’d been at Bitterbridge, and Ralf seemed determined to speak to her about ships to a degree that would drive the most patient of women mad. By the time she had fallen into bed that night, she was exhausted enough that there was no dream of any life but the one before her.</p>
<p>    When she went down to the port the following morning, it was to find that the ship due to dock had been delayed. Brienne knew she should return to Evenfall, but she sent the carriage back with the message that she had some purchases to make and would return in the evening. It was not a lie—she rode north first, to the larger village and its market there, seeking out what she needed and carefully wrapping and storing it in her saddlebags. After a hearty lunch at the inn was consumed, however, she left the village to head towards the cove that lay between the two villages. It was yet another grey day, and a fine mist hung in the air, but she hitched her horse to the low scrub tree and walked along the beach all the same, stooping to pick a particularly interesting seashell or a stone to skip against the barely lapping waves. In the late afternoon she returned to the docks, stopping by the smithy to see if her commission was done.</p>
<p>    “I worked on it especially,” the blacksmith said, turning to disappear deeper into the workshop to retrieve it. “It’s not to the standard I would like,” he said as he returned, “and nowhere near as fine as the other, but…”</p>
<p>    He extended the dagger, and Brienne took it. He was not wrong—it <em>wasn’t</em> as fine—but the balance was good and the edge sharp. She thanked him and left him with a gold dragon in appreciation for his speed, then headed towards the docks proper. Both men’s ships had come in, mercifully, and Brienne stood firmly as she waited to meet the last two suitors who had come to vie for her hand.</p>
<p>    Ser Simon Graceford was first, a short, slight man with dark hair and eyes, and a strange little squint to his expression. He bowed when he saw her.</p>
<p>    “Ser Brienne,” he said softly, tongue stumbling. “Thank you for your hospitality.”</p>
<p>    “Ser Simon,” she replied, “welcome to Tarth. I hope your journey was pleasant.”</p>
<p>    “I do not have the stomach for the water, I’m afraid. But I used the time to draw up letters of our crop yields; Holyhall is used to answering to the Warden of the South and we will have those commitments, and the ones to the Crown, and our people. But we expect good yields and a long summer.” </p>
<p>    “That is… useful,” she said, hoping it was the right answer.</p>
<p>Simon shook his head, rising to the balls of his feet and back down. “Apologies,” he said. “I do not—I do not have much patience, I’m afraid. Best to say what I mean. No one is seeking my hand for the pleasure of my company.”</p>
<p>She nodded slowly, resisting the urge to say no one sought her hand for the company either. “Well, the carriage has come down from Evenfall, if you wish to bring your trunks.”</p>
<p>    He bobbed up and down once more and moved towards the road, doubling back to direct the man who had brought his luggage from the ship and paying him generously despite the fact his own cloak showed signs of heavy wear. </p>
<p>    She left him to it, walking to the next pier where another small ship was unloading its cargo. The handful of passengers stood crowded together, though it was easy to see her final guest—Lord Hugh Beesbury was a head taller than the others, nearly of a height with her, and dressed finely in the yellow and black stripes of his house. On anyone else it would most clearly resemble the bee on the house crest, but he was the sort of beautiful and self-assured man that made the ridiculous seem mundane. He could not mask his surprise when she strode towards him, and it took only a moment to wonder what offended him most—her appearance or her clothes or that she was alone—but he met her with a sweeping bow.</p>
<p>“Lady Brienne, I did not expect the pleasure of your company.”</p>
<p>He looked up from his bow, his warm brown eyes dancing with some hidden mirth, as if they were together in on some joke. She disliked the feeling immensely; such familiarity was unearned.  </p>
<p>“Stand up,” she ordered, and the lord laughed.</p>
<p>“My, you did <em>mean</em> it when you said you’d hold the reins.”</p>
<p>“Lord Beesbury, welcome to Tarth,” she said, nearly grinding her teeth. “The carriage awaits.”</p>
<p>Nodding politely, she spun on her heel and headed back to her hitched horse. She had no intention of riding anywhere near the carriage, or the odious man within it.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>    The day after the final guests had arrived, there was to be an official welcoming feast, the first of many. The kitchens were in a state of controlled chaos, and men and women from the village had been brought in to deck the Great Hall in the rose and azure of Tarth’s crest. Tapestries and banners were hung, and spring flowers brought in from the gardens. The finest porcelain was brought out, and wines her father had saved for a special occasion, the most complicated dishes prepared. It was more than Brienne cared for, but it was expected and it would not do to show the guests any less.</p>
<p>    Still, by mid-afternoon, she was prepared to cast it all—feast and guests both—into the sea and never speak of it again. She could barely move in her own home, it seemed—she would head down one hall to find three men hauling furniture between rooms, and turn to another only to see the telltale shape of one suitor or another. She finally retreated to her own rooms and politely refused entry to any of the maids who stopped by to see if she required help dressing for the banquet. </p>
<p>    When the sky outside was dark and the hour turned too late to be denied, Brienne opened the wardrobe where her new gowns rested. She selected one at random, running her hand along the sleeve and lifting it out. It was a fine, dark blue wool, with silver embroidery shot through the bodice in swirls and laced with silver ribbons that Brienne could tighten herself—it had been the one point she’d insisted upon when she’d agreed to the half-dozen new gowns, that she be able to dress and undress without assistance. It was beautifully constructed, and simple enough—there’d been no time for complexity even if she’d wanted it—and she <em>hated </em>it. It was heavy and impractical, and entirely necessary.</p>
<p>She removed her shirt and breeches, and hastily washed at the basin with a small cloth and floral-scented soap. Put on a linen shift, and the layers to go atop it. Used a small looking glass to study her reflection—there was no way to hide the length of her hair, or the texture, and for a brief, mad moment she thought of Olenna Tyrell and her wimples. She was dead now, and her grandchildren. Brienne took the small pot of beeswax and slicked her hair back.</p>
<p>There was a knock at the door, and before Brienne could send whichever maid it was away, the door swung open. It was not a maid, but Septa Roelle, and Brienne’s hand clenched; she’d avoided the woman in the past few weeks, exchanging no more than a few words when required, and she had no intention of stopping now.</p>
<p>“I did not allow you in,” she remarked.</p>
<p>Roelle looked around the room, and clucked when she saw it empty.</p>
<p>“No help,” she said. “Honestly, Brienne, you already seem determined to scare off any suitors, striding around Evenfall the way you do.”</p>
<p>“Leave.”</p>
<p>“You’ll need help with your gown—”</p>
<p>“I don’t. Leave.”</p>
<p>“And your jewellery?”</p>
<p>“I have none.”</p>
<p>It was not quite true—she <em>owned</em> some, most of it pieces that had once belonged to her mother. Delicate chains of gold, hair combs inlaid with pearls or marble from Tarth as often as fine jewels, but nothing she desired to wear, or which suited her.</p>
<p>“Your father ought to have remarried,” Roelle said, coming nearer to Brienne. “Better than to demand things of you you have no ability to give. Here, allow me—”</p>
<p>Brienne caught Roelle’s hand before she could touch her, and her sleeve fell back to reveal—</p>
<p>“You’re an ungrateful creature,” Roelle snapped, pulling her hand back before Brienne could be certain of what she’d seen. “Suit yourself. <em>Try </em>not to shame your father, at least.”</p>
<p>And with that she stormed from the room, her temper up. Brienne’s hands shook as she lifted the looking glass once more, and wondered if she should… She set the glass aside, and stood to don her gown. She smoothed the fabric with nervous hands, once, twice, tested the limits of her motion. When she knew them as well as she could, she crossed the room to pull out the wrapped bundle she had brought home the day before.</p>
<p>Inside was a leather belt, carefully studded with suns, and the dagger she’d ordered, with its lionhead pommel. She could not wear Oathkeeper to the banquet—a knight might wear a sword without remark, but in this matter she was only a woman—but she would not go unarmed either. She might have chosen something else, some symbol of Tarth or the House of the King, but it was <em>her</em> sword asked to be set aside and she would not do so without protest. Fastening the belt and then the dagger at her waist, Brienne was as prepared as she could be, and headed towards the Great Hall.</p>
<p>Her father was already in the Hall, bedecked in the formal robes and jewels of the Evenstar, and he gestured for her to sit at his side. Long tables filled the room where servants and other guests would eat, but Brienne and her suitors would all dine at the head table upon the dais, with its brocaded table cloths and ornate candles. She sat, carefully, and watched, face flaming red in shame, as each suitor was announced at the door by the sound of a horn.</p>
<p>Prince Albin, in a Dornish robe of oranges and yellows. Ser Myles Musgood and then Ser Myles Tudbury, inseparable even in this. Lord Theo Lychester, far too young. Ser Addam Marbrand, who bowed low and accepted the seat she had saved beside her, hoping he would be more tolerable company than most. Lord Simon Graceford, who seemed entirely ill at ease as he scurried towards the seat furthest from the door, and Lord Beesbury, still in his house colours. Ser Pearse Toyne of the Stormlands, and Lord Ralf Harlaw of the Iron Islands. Amongst them was her husband-to-be, and the thought filled her with a slowly creeping dread even as dinner was served: a hearty stew first, followed by platters of fish and roast goat and suckling pig, rich preserves and nuts and cheeses. </p>
<p>They were on the third course when a servant came to stand between Brienne and her father. He leaned in and quietly informed them that another suitor had come to the door, and that the man apologised for the lateness of his arrival but hoped they would welcome him all the same. There was no one else expected, but it was easy enough to imagine that circumstances had changed and a raven to tell them so undelivered; there had been no strong storms on Tarth, but the weather was fickle enough this time of year. It was no matter: there was space enough at the table, and Brienne told the man to fetch another setting and ensure rooms were set up for the new guest while they ate.</p>
<p>The servant nodded efficaciously, and within moments the table was set and the horn sounded at the door, heralding the latest arrival. The diners paused and turned towards the sound, and Brienne set her wine aside and neatly folded her hands into her lap. </p>
<p>“Presenting,” said the manservant at the door, his voice laced with uncertainty even as it rolled through the room, “Ser Jaime Lannister.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter Four</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>They were on the third course when a servant came to stand between Brienne and her father. He leaned in and quietly informed them that another suitor had come to the door, and that the man apologised for the lateness of his arrival but hoped they would welcome him all the same. There was no one else expected, but it was easy enough to imagine that circumstances had changed and a raven to tell them so undelivered; there had been no strong storms on Tarth, but the weather was fickle enough this time of year. It was no matter: there was space enough at the table, and Brienne told the man to fetch another setting and ensure rooms were set up for the new guest while they ate.</i>
</p>
<p>  <i>The servant nodded efficaciously, and within moments the table was set and the horn sounded at the door, heralding the latest arrival. The diners paused and turned towards the sound, and Brienne set her wine aside and neatly folded her hands into her lap.</i></p>
<p>
  <i>“Presenting,” said the manservant at the door, his voice laced with uncertainty even as it rolled through the room, “Ser Jaime Lannister.</i>
</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    She couldn’t breathe. It was a cruel trick, or a dream, but still <em>still</em> she could not breathe, could not breathe, and then he stepped through the door as the blood rushed to her ears, stifling the adamant <em>Fuck</em> from her right—Ser Addam, it must have been—and he stepped through the door and she thought she might never breathe again. </p>
<p>    <em>Oh</em>, she felt herself think, <em>it must be raining.</em></p>
<p>    His hair was plastered against his forehead, his cloak—hastily taken by the servant who had announced him—dripped on the floor, and she could not breathe. He was exhausted and drenched, and for a long, mad moment she thought him a ghost returned from the sea, like the stories of her youth, a sailor come to reclaim his faithless bride after his ship was lost to the storms. But it had not been the water that had taken him, it hadn’t; she still had dreams of his last moments, buried beneath rocks and unable to breathe, had seen his damaged sword. </p>
<p>She could not breathe.</p>
<p>    She rose from the table, found some deep reserve of strength that seemed unfathomable even as she drew from it.</p>
<p>    “Welcome, Ser Jaime,” she said, her voice too loud, too quick, and it was a miracle she could speak at all when she could not breathe. “Please, join us. I must—” Her voice went high, threatening to crack, threatening to scream, and she still could not breathe. “I will return in a moment, I must speak with the steward about your arrival. Excuse me.”</p>
<p>    She ducked her head and rounded the table, nearly tripping over her skirts as she descended the dais, headed directly for the smaller doors used by the servants coming from the kitchens, not daring to risk being any closer to Jaime than she already was; she could feel it building, could feel something building in her chest and she did not trust it, did not trust what would happen if she came close enough to see whether he was a spectre after all or flesh and blood. She pressed on her chest, willing this <em>thing</em> to abate enough to breathe, and moved faster, through the door and down the corridor, servants watching her in surprise as it grew too large to contain and burst from her, this wailing, awful sound and she stopped it, she <em>stopped</em> it, pressed her palm to her mouth and bit it back with every bit of her strength and stubbornness, and it fought her, leaked through, this feral howl that sounded foreign to her ears, until she could push it back once more, and when she was in her rooms she buried her face against her pillow and let it go. She wasn’t crying, perhaps she might have understood crying, surely that was the right reaction, not this weird, tearing pain that wrenched itself from her body and echoed no matter how deeply she buried it, how firmly she pushed her face against the heavy down of her pillow.</p>
<p> It passed, eventually, it had to pass and it did, leaving behind a heavy ache as she breathed, deep and ragged but she <em>breathed</em>; it was too late to return to the feast, even if she had been able to fathom it, too late to— </p>
<p>She was so <em>tired</em>. She was so tired, and if she dared to think that Jaime—that Jaime— It rose again, that wail, as tempestuous and unforgiving as any wave in a storm, battering against her time and time again until she wondered whether it would be easier not to fight, to let the water take her so she could rest. Perhaps she had—the fire in her hearth was little more than embers when a knock came at the door, and she sat up. Jaime was alive, had been alive all these moons and—she squeezed her eyes shut, bit it all back. Straightened the cursed dress as best she could. </p>
<p>“Come in,” she called, and the door eased open to reveal her father.</p>
<p>He came in, shutting the door behind him and barring it.</p>
<p>“There we go,” he said. “We’ll be alone now.” He crossed the room to take the chair nearest her bed. “What in all the hells was that about, my girl?”</p>
<p>    “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was… unwell. Too much to eat, perhaps. I should have sent word I would not return.”</p>
<p>    Her father scoffed. “Right. The Kingslayer arrived—”</p>
<p>    “Don’t call him that,” she said reflexively. </p>
<p>Her father looked at her, evaluating; she did her best to meet his gaze. </p>
<p>“Ah,” he said. “You do know him?”</p>
<p>    She refused to glance away. “Our paths crossed, you know that. When I served Lady Catelyn, and then— He fought in the battle against the undead, you must have heard.”</p>
<p>    “I’d heard things, but you’ve never…” her father sighed. “You speak of none of it. Not in your letters, and not since you’ve been home. How am I to know anything?”</p>
<p>    “There is little to know,” she said. “We are—were, friends, or as close as we could be when we spent most of the war on opposing sides. He came north to fight against the undead, and then died in the battle for King’s Landing.”</p>
<p>    “He’s looking very lively for a dead man.”</p>
<p>    She gave a choked laugh, and it was better than the alternative. “Yes, well…” She twisted her hands into her skirts, gripping them as if they were her only anchor to this world. <em>Jaime was alive.</em> “It’s no matter. A surprise, that is all.”</p>
<p>    “He comes for your hand.”</p>
<p>    “No,” she said, though she knew it was absurd to deny it. “It is not… It is not what you are supposing. He is—” <em>alive, he is alive and he is here, and if you leave your rooms you could see it for yourself.</em> “I owe him much, and it is—” The pain was rising again, and with it so many questions.</p>
<p>    “I can throw him from the castle this moment,” her father offered.</p>
<p>    She looked towards her shuttered windows, the wind and rain lashing against them. She hadn’t noticed. </p>
<p>    “No,” she said quietly. “In the morn, but there is no need to be cruel. He’s like to drown in this weather, and the dark.”</p>
<p>    “The cells then.”</p>
<p>    “He has done nothing wrong!” she exclaimed, sitting straighter.</p>
<p>    Her father gave a sad smile. “I had wondered where you… Nevermind. No cells, no pitching him into the dark. I’m sure you have your reasons.”</p>
<p>    “It’s not…” <em>He’s not Renly</em>, she almost said. He had earned her faith. “He… without his aid, I doubt I would have saved Sansa Stark. I know I would not be alive.” She breathed deeply. “I owe him much.”</p>
<p>    “Brienne…”</p>
<p>    “He <em>knighted </em>me, father,” she pressed on. “We thought ourselves dead before the next sunrise, if ever it came, and he…” She shook her head. “He is the truest knight I know. I know what they say, I know… I know <em>him</em>, and…”</p>
<p>    “You love him.”</p>
<p>    “No.” </p>
<p><em>Yes</em>. Even now. Even now, the night of her betrothal feast, when he arrived soaked to the bone with no explanation, when he had been gone for months and had not thought to so much as send word, she loved him. He was alive and she loved him, and none of it...</p>
<p>It had been easier when she believed him dead.</p>
<p>    Her father sighed as he stood. “He can leave tomorrow, and rest tonight, if that is what you wish.”</p>
<p>    “It would be the kindest thing,” she said. “I’ve no doubt he’ll be gone by morning.”</p>
<p>    Her father said nothing more, and when the door had shut behind him Brienne hauled herself to her feet long enough to shed her dress, then crawled beneath the sheets in her shift, too tired for anything else. </p>
<p>    <em>You love him. He comes for your hand. You love him. Jaime is alive and he is here and he comes for your hand, as if these past moons mean nothing, as if...</em></p>
<p>It was a long time before she could breathe well enough to sleep. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>    It was dark when Jaime was woken by a loud crack, and he scrambled for the sword kept beside him, his hand on the hilt before remembering—</p>
<p>    It might have been better to stay in Essos. </p>
<p>    He released the hilt, breathing deeply. He was on Tarth. It was thunder, not... whatever possibility that had haunted him these last months, in his one room house outside the city of Myr. He was safe.</p>
<p>    Still, he rolled over and climbed from the bed, pulling on his still-damp breeches and shirt, and moved towards the shuttered windows. The storm had grown worse since his arrival, the wind howling through the edges of the shutters and the stone ledge beneath it wet. There was no light seeping through, so it must be before dawn; another crack of thunder, close enough he could feel it echo in his chest, made him rethink—it could be midday in weather like this and there would be no sign of the sun.</p>
<p>    He kicked the small bag at his feet, the one containing his worldly possessions—a second set of clothes, flint and steel, a small knife and some rope. So little to call his, and still he’d come, still he thought that she would—  </p>
<p>    He’d been a fool. </p>
<p>    Tugging on his jerkin, the laces held between his teeth as he knotted it tightly, Jaime did his best not to think of the night before—the way she’d risen from the table, face red, her hands clutching at her skirts as if resisting the urge to strangle him. Running him through with a sword seemed much more her preference, but she’d had only a small dagger at her waist. Then she’d left, and Jaime had finally looked at the rest of the table—a host of fools, not one of them worthy of shining her armour, Addam least of all. His cousin had said not a word to Jaime as he took a seat at the table or picked at his food, and when it was clear Brienne would not return that evening and the dinner was done, Jaime had tried to catch him as they left. Addam had shaken off his hand, and told Jaime to fuck off before walking away.</p>
<p>    Jaime could not understand why the fuck he was on Tarth anyway. </p>
<p>    He was just tugging on his boots when there was a knock on the door.  “M’lord?”    </p>
<p>“Yes?” Jaime called out, annoyed by the interruption.</p>
<p>“Lord Selwyn sent me.”</p>
<p>Jaime strode across the room and swung open the door, revealing a young man on the other side. Very young, though he was nearly of height with Jaime already; he wondered what it was about Tarth that grew giants. </p>
<p>“And what does Lord Selwyn want?” he asked bitterly.</p>
<p>“I’m to help you dress, ser,” the boy managed, flustered and trying not to show it.</p>
<p>“How generous.”</p>
<p>The boy stood a little straighter. “All Lady Brienne’s guests have been—”</p>
<p>“Ser.”</p>
<p>“Pardon?”</p>
<p>“All Ser Brienne’s guests.”</p>
<p>The boy turned a particularly brilliant shade of red. “All of Ser Brienne’s guests have been assigned servants to help them.”</p>
<p>“They didn’t bring their own?”</p>
<p>Strange; most men travelled with an army of sycophants and servants.</p>
<p>“It was Ser Brienne’s request,” the boy said, a mulish expression on his face. “We’ve been hired from the local villages.”</p>
<p>Jaime grunted a reply. “And I suppose you are well paid, at a time of year the fishing is fickle?”</p>
<p>“Just so, ser.”</p>
<p>“Well, I can’t imagine you’ll have a position long. Ser Brienne looked fit to drown me herself last night,” Jaime said. “What’s your name?”</p>
<p>“Cliff, ser.”</p>
<p>“Like the—” Jaime gestured towards the window.</p>
<p>“Like Clifford, ser.”</p>
<p>“Very well, Cliff.  I’m afraid I’ve no need of a boy to help me dress, I’ve not brought much with me. But if you could run to the kitchens and fetch me some breakfast, it would be appreciated.”</p>
<p>Cliff managed a shade of red hitherto unforeseen on a human body.</p>
<p>“I would not, ser,” he said, refusing to look away from Jaime though it was obvious such a comment took most of his courage. “You’ll want to dine in the hall.”</p>
<p>“And why would I do that?”</p>
<p>“So Cook doesn’t spit in your porridge, ser.”</p>
<p>Ah, so it was like that.</p>
<p>“You never know, Cliff, I might deserve it.”</p>
<p>“Never said you didn’t, ser.”</p>
<p>Startled, Jaime laughed. “Just a word of advice, don’t cheek those you serve. Half of them would take your head as soon as look at you.”</p>
<p>“Lord Selwyn would not allow it.”</p>
<p>“No, if he’s half the man his daughter is—” The boy bristled, and Jaime raised his hand in conciliation. “A turn of phrase. If Lord Selwyn is half the <em>leader</em> his daughter is, I can’t imagine he would. Still, it’s good to be mindful.”</p>
<p>“As you say, ser.”</p>
<p>“You’re very outspoken for a boy in your position, Cliff.”</p>
<p>“I was hired for the kitchens, ser.”</p>
<p>“Ahh, that would explain it. Fetch my sword, would you? It’s on the” —Jaime gestured towards the bed.</p>
<p>Cliff did, bringing it to Jaime and fastening it about his waist with less finesse than Jaime had ever managed with one hand. </p>
<p>“A squire you are not,” Jaime said. “But then again, I’m hardly a knight, so we’re well suited that way.  Now, would you mind showing me the way to the hall?”</p>
<p>The boy acquiesced, leading Jaime down the wide corridors and stairs until they’d reached the doors to the Great Hall; they were no less impressive on a second viewing, the wood inlaid with marble and silver filigree. </p>
<p>“I will see you this evening,” Jaime told Cliff, then smiled wryly, “presuming I am not cast out into the storm.”</p>
<p>Cliff looked up, his head cocked as if listening to the storm that could barely be heard from above. “I don’t think she’ll let up anytime soon,” he said. “She’s in a frightful temper.”</p>
<p>“The weather and Ser Brienne both, I imagine,” Jaime snorted, though it was not particularly funny.</p>
<p>Cliff scowled, all humour gone in an instant. “I will see you this evening, <em>Ser Jaime</em>. Presuming you are not cast out into the storm.”</p>
<p>Surprised by the change in the boy’s mood, Jaime entered the hall. The tables from the night before were still there, though no one sat at the head table. A large pot of porridge had been brought to sit in front of it, and a young girl was steadily scooping bowl after bowl of it as people came forward. Jaime took a bowl and glanced around the hall, finding most of the men from the night before at one of the tables; he strode over, sprawling next to Addam and smiling insolently.</p>
<p>“Fine morning,” he said, nearly revelling in the frowns and turned backs as he began to eat his breakfast—if they thought a little revulsion would upset him, they’d never been to a Lannister family meal. </p>
<p> He ate in silence, listening to the men discuss their journeys to Tarth and their first days; none of them mentioned Brienne, or their reasons for being there, and when Jaime interjected his own comments—“Ser Brienne would…” or the like—they continued to ignore him like the fools they were. Here was a chance to marry the most magnificent woman in Westeros, and they were more interested in whether the Straits of Tarth were particularly calm for the time of year. </p>
<p>“Will you just <em>be silent</em>,” Addam hissed after the third time, not bothering to look at Jaime. </p>
<p>He returned to his bowl. </p>
<p>    Jaime was only just finishing his porridge when Brienne arrived, looking far more herself than she had the night before. It had been a fine enough gown she’d worn, simple and well-fitting, but he always thought of her like this, breeches and leathers and a sword—her sword, its golden lionhead glinting in the lamplight—at her waist. Thought of nights when he would slip just a single finger beneath it all to stroke the patch of skin at the base of her spine, or tug at the laces of her breeches….  </p>
<p>     Her gaze drifted past him as she surveyed the table, then she cleared her throat.</p>
<p>    “We had planned to show you some of the island, but with the weather we thought it best to stay closer to home. Please meet me outside the hall when you are done, and I will escort you through Evenfall.” Jaime rose with the rest of them, and her blue eyes finally settled on him, her expression stone. “Ser Jaime, as the weather will not allow your return to port, you may join us, or entertain yourself for the day. I can’t imagine you’ll have much need to know the history of Evenfall.”</p>
<p>    “The company is reason enough,” he volleyed back. </p>
<p>    She did not respond. Not then, and not as she began to show them around the castle, pointing out architecture of note or historical points of interest. It was a fine enough place—smaller than Casterly Rock, or many places on the mainland in all honesty, but the carved marble and high ceilings made it light even in the midst of a storm. <em>Tell me of your history</em>, he wanted to say, <em>Tell me where Ser Brienne first held a sword, and where she skinned her knee, and how she broke her nose. Tell me whether you would sneak into the library and dream of chivalry, or listen to singers in the Great Hall. </em>Yet every time he seemed to get near her, she would turn and draw another man into conversation, and all of them seemed more than happy to be used in such a way, no doubt hoping it marked some sign of special affection. Even Addam took his turn, laughing and touching her arm, though she had not been that funny in truth. </p>
<p>    She showed them most of the castle, the Great Hall and the library and the location of her father’s private study. She gestured down one corridor and called it the family rooms, and another were small solars for more intimate conversations. There was a gallery with portraits of Evenstars of old, and an armory hall. </p>
<p>    “Most of it is out in the proper armory, by the yards,” Brienne said, running a finger against a particularly ornate morningstar. “This is for the most renowned.”</p>
<p>    He wondered whether her armour would find its way here. Not her sword, he did not think she would deign to part from it whatever her feelings towards <em>him </em>if she had not already done so, but her armour should be here. Hero of the Long Night, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Before he could ask, she hurried them onto the next room.  </p>
<p>After the midday meal was eaten—bread and honey, a thick fish pottage, and almond cakes—Brienne stood from the table.</p>
<p>    “I have some island matters to attend to this afternoon, but you are all welcome to continue your explorations of Evenfall.” </p>
<p>    “And I, ser?” Jaime asked, demanding that she <em>look </em>at him, acknowledge him. He had come all this way, she could give him the courtesy of an answer.</p>
<p>    She clenched the edge of the table, her knuckles white and her jaw clenched. “As you like, Ser Jaime.”</p>
<p>    He did <em>not</em> like. He did not like her indifference and he did not like these men who spoke to her so easily and he did not like that she could, even in her anger, treat him as if he was nothing to her. As if—</p>
<p>    When she took her leave from the hall, he waited only a moment to follow her, trailed after her until they were in a smaller side corridor near the library, and called her name.</p>
<p>    She turned, froze. He stepped closer, she stepped back, a strange dance until her back was against the stone; he leaned in, bracing his hand against the wall. She seemed small like this, more fragile even as she tilted her chin up, looked down at him. </p>
<p>    “You’re avoiding me,” he observed, his voice little more than a growl.</p>
<p>    “Don’t.”</p>
<p>    “Why not?” He studied her face, seeking some answer in it, some explanation for how she could so easily…  “Why <em>not</em>, Brienne?”</p>
<p>    Her eyes closed, her jaw working. “You don’t get to show up here now, Jaime,” she said. “What was it? Did you hear I was to marry and— what? Think what a pity it was that I would not pine over you the rest of my days, sighing forlornly as I stared out the window? Mayhaps weep delicately from time to time?”</p>
<p>    Stubborn woman. “Brienne—”</p>
<p>    Her eyes opened, limpid blue and pained. </p>
<p>    “I will,” she continued, voice cracking. “I <em>will</em>. But I can’t let that define me. Not when I have—”</p>
<p>    There were tears, he realised; it would be so easy to reach out, stroke her cheek, kiss them away, murmur <em>I’m sorry, I’m sorry I left you that night, forgive me</em>, but before he could move her expression hardened. </p>
<p>    “The storm should ease up by tomorrow,” she said, and whatever aching, shivering uncertainty there’d been in her voice was gone. “There will be ships to Pentos, or Storm’s End, or King’s Landing. Dorne, maybe. Wherever you want to go.”</p>
<p>    “And if I want to stay here?”</p>
<p>    She gripped his wrist between her fingers, lifting it away.</p>
<p>    “You don’t,” she said coldly. “You have already made that clear.”</p>
<p>    Releasing his arm, she pushed off the wall and walked away. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It is Thursday where I am, and I didn't want to leave this update two weeks so... There's a good chance there won't be an update next week, just because I'll probably be quite busy. Miracles have happened, but if there's no new chapter it's nothing dire!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter Five</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I decided that rather than skip posting, I'd just post early in case I'm not free on Thursday. I have the self control of a toddler. It's a short chapter anyway. Barely counts.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaime returned to his quarters for the afternoon, unable to shake the feel of Brienne’s hand on his wrist, of her expression as she’d... It had been unexpected, that was all. A moment of old grief before she remembered herself. But he found he had no desire for company, and so returning to his rooms it was. He unpacked his bag; it had done little to protect its contents the night before, and all it contained was damp. He laid out the few items before the fire, fingers hesitating over the clothes. He had donned his better clothes for his arrival, though he’d neither expected nor hoped to arrive so late, and the spares were in poorer condition than he’d allowed himself to see. Leaving them to dry, he paced the room. Examined the walls for lack of anything better to do. Swung his sword once or twice—even after months it did not fit well, the balance off, but it had been all he could afford once he had recovered. Still, it <em>was </em>a sword, and that was enough. </p><p>    Cliff arrived eventually, still sour-faced though he feigned at politeness.</p><p>    “Don’t bother,” Jaime told him, sprawling into the chair by the fire and looking at the clothes still drying beside him. “If you wish to help, I have need of a thread and needle, to stitch my breeches.”</p><p>    “The chambermaids will attend to it,” Cliff said.</p><p>    “The chambermaids are undoubtedly occupied, I am not. Please fetch me needle and thread.”</p><p>    The boy did not need to know that the lack of occupation would send Jaime mad quicker than anything, and regardless he bobbed assent and headed out the door. Jaime lifted the breeches up to examine the small tear. It would be easy enough to fix, though it would not hide how worn they were—there were some copper coins left in his bag from money he had earnt in Myr, perhaps enough to seek out a tailor now he was back in Westeros, though he doubted it. The leather bag would need repair too, if he were to be travelling again soon. He could write to Tyrion, perhaps, but all that would entail exhausted him just to contemplate. </p><p>    Cliff came back soon enough, with needle and thread and a distrustful expression. Jaime examined the needle and decided it was heavy enough to stitch the leather of his bag as well. </p><p>    “Oh, do sit down,” Jaime directed as Cliff continued to loom in the periphery. </p><p>    The boy did, watching Jaime as he manipulated the breeches over the chair arm and began to stitch.</p><p>    “You don’t…” Cliff began, and Jaime looked over at him. He was worrying his lip between his teeth.</p><p>    “Surely you know how to sew,” Jaime said dryly.</p><p>    “Yes. But I wouldn’t think— Nevermind.”</p><p>    “A soldier who cannot stitch a wound or repair his own uniform isn’t much use,” Jaime said. “I learnt as a child, but we were all expected to do it when I was a squire. I’ll admit we don’t all have a fine hand” —Jaime grimaced at the uneven stitches— “I certainly don’t nowadays. But I reckon even Ser Brienne could stitch a man shut if it came to it.”</p><p>    Cliff nodded, then pulled up his feet and drew his knees beneath his chin as he watched Jaime fumble his way first through his breeches, and then begin on the bag. Jaime was almost done with the latter when there was a knock on the door, and Cliff jumped from his chair and darted over to open it. Addam was on the other side, and he did not wait for an invitation before pushing through the door with a fearsome scowl on his face. He was carrying something in his hand—a doublet, Jaime realised as Addam tossed it onto the table. </p><p>    “So you don’t humiliate her further,” his cousin said, tone clipped. </p><p>    “I did no such thing,” Jaime retorted, though he wasn’t entirely convinced—her anger had been one thing, and expected, but that flash of hurt… “And surely nothing as humiliating as being seen with you.” </p><p>    It was an old joke, but Addam just shrugged and turned away. </p><p>“Oh, fuck off then,” Jaime spat, scathingly. “I can’t imagine why you’re here to begin with.”</p><p>Addam paused, his shoulders tensed. “No, I can’t imagine you can. You never could.”</p><p>With that, Addam left, the soft <em>snick</em> as the door closed as damning as any shout. Jaime stood up and moved to the table, picking up the doublet. It was clearly one of Addam’s own, the dark grey material and orange tree on the breast a sign of house Marbrand, and for a moment Jaime considered pitching the damned thing in the fire. But he did not have anything truly suited to dinner, so he begrudgingly shrugged it on, tucking the right sleeve up so it did not flop so conspicuously around his absent hand. Tyrion had kept the golden one, and Jaime had had no reason to replace it in Essos, always waiting for a message that had not come. </p><p>Cliff had watched it all in silence, and when Jaime was done he moved forward.</p><p>“Your sword, ser?”</p><p>“Leave it,” Jaime said, glaring at where it lay on the table, the scabbard beaten and the hilt wrapped in discoloured strips of leather. Pathetic excuse for a weapon. “I’ll go to dinner and shan’t need your help after, be here again in the morning.”</p><p>He really could not bear the boy’s knowing eyes if… He had no need for assistance, that was all.</p><p>He went down to the Great Hall, taking a seat at the far end of the high table.  The meal was more modest—there need not be a feast every evening—but still hearty and delicious. The other suitors ignored him, of course, but Jaime paid them no mind—his attention was far too focused on waiting for a woman who never arrived. </p><p>***</p><p>    Brienne did not intend to avoid Jaime. It was a silly thing, unbecoming. But as the second day dawned, she could only remember the way he had been <em>there</em>, he’d been gone and then he’d been there right in front of her, <em>you’re avoiding me</em>, his breath warm and sweet against her lips, alive; he had been there and everything was wrong. He’d been dead. She could understand dead. It hurt, it hurt <em>every day</em> if she allowed it, but she could understand it. She could not understand alive, could not understand moons of silence as if she’d meant nothing, could not understand— If avoiding him was how she could do her duty, she would. And so she did. </p><p>    She joined the suitors for breakfast, bracing herself for… she did not know. Whatever it was did not come; Jaime sat at the table, he joined the tour of all the places of Evenfall she had not taken the men the day before, but he did not seek to be closer, did not jape or charm, and it was no relief. It was no relief when he looked at her only when he thought she did not see, with a sadness that she only caught from the corner of her eye, a melancholy weight.</p><p>    She could not— She showed the men the rookery, the maester’s rooms. Watched how each greeted the servants, noted who knew the routes through Evenfall. Talked with each of them in turn—the Lychester boy blushed so furiously red when she asked him if he had a girl at home that she had leaned in and told him that she would send him back to the Riverlands on the first boat when the storm passed, and ensure his uncle need never know the reason. She would write to Edmure Tully as well, she decided—Lord Lychester could not complain if his nephew became a particular guest of his lord, and the boy might even enjoy his time in Riverrun. Better than beneath the thumb of his insufferable uncle; he did not say so, he was as polite as anything, but she knew the type all too well.</p><p>    The storm calmed shortly after the noonday meal; not enough to send Jaime or the young Theo away, but enough to tell the men to fetch their cloaks to see the grounds of Evenfall before it picked up once more. They did, and she showed them the stables and kennels, the kitchen garden glasshouse and the flower garden enclosed by a high stone fence she’d scaled as a child. Simon Graceford seemed particularly keen on the last, though the weather kept them from exploring the gardens in full; he bent down to examine a dull yellow flower, brow furrowed, and asked so many questions about its growing habits that Brienne promised to introduce him to the gardener another day; she’d turned towards Jaime then, expecting to share a smile of amusement, but he was not looking towards her and she felt a fool. Of course it was— It was simply habit, long forgotten muscle memory, not… </p><p>    “The armory and training yards are next,” she said, showing them first the small yard where she’d met Ser Addam days before, and then the larger. “We have enclosed them,” she said, “for the weather. Ser Myles, do you do the same?”</p><p>    Both of the Myles looked startled to be addressed, though the Musgood recovered more quickly.</p><p>    “Of course, Ser Brienne,” he said, “though my father insists on training men outside, when possible. Not many battles are fought indoors.”</p><p>    “Plenty are,” interjected Lord Beesbury, the pompous ass. “Not everything can be resolved through sheer force of might. Of course, I would not expect a Stormlander to note that well.” He paused just a moment too long before adding, “Ser Brienne excluded, of course.”</p><p>    She chose to ignore it in favour of smiling at the Musgood. “It is a practical decision. We do have a third yard, for just that purpose. If you go through to the armory” —she pointed to the door on the far side of the room, which led to a covered walkway between the yard and the armory— “there’s a door that opens out into the outdoor yard.”</p><p>    A particularly loud lash of rain fell on the windows above, and Brienne lifted her eyes. The storm had picked up once more, and a flash of lightning cracked across the sky. The storm’s respite had not lasted long. Biting back a sigh, she strode towards the armory corridor, trusting the men to follow. It was not a test, she told herself, but to see how each man treated the armory, which weapons they chose and how they treated them… much could be learnt from it.</p><p>    “Tourney weapons are to the right,” she said, “and spare armour. Once you’ve had a look around, we can spar until the weather abates a little.”</p><p>    She moved to the side of the room and leaned against the wall, watching them all. Prince Albin, Ser Addam, and Lord Beesbury all chose their weapons with confidence, and replaced the unchosen ones carefully. Ser Simon was slower, more considerate, but when he finally lifted a sword from the rack he seemed certain in his decision. The Stormlanders chose morningstars; a cynical mind would believe they remembered the melee at Bitterbridge and hoped to endear themselves to Brienne, but she was not certain they were clever enough for such a thing. Ralf Harlaw chose a spear and shield, to her surprise, but from the little she had seen of him it was not a poor choice. Poor Lychester looked at the weapons with a wariness that was almost comical, and eventually selected a sword with no real certainty.</p><p>    Jaime stayed on the far side of the room, looking at the real weapons, and no one bothered to call him away. </p><p>Back in the yard, the men split into groups—two here, three there—and began to warm up. Brienne watched them still, weighing their skills as best she could, trying to learn of them through it—who was confident, who was not, who was aware of the other fighters, who was more interested in preening for attention than training. She had not, in truth, felt like she’d learnt much at all when Prince Albin and Ser Addam began to fight in earnest, and all attention turned to them. They were both good, neither prone to flourishes or dramatics, but used sharp, controlled movements, the joy of the fight in their furrowed brows and narrowed eyes. They moved smoothly, give and take, until they both gleamed with sweat in the light of the oil lamps that flickered on the edges of the yard. In time, Albin emerged the victor, not due to any real superiority but a lucky strike of his spear, and he turned to Brienne when he had, smile wide</p><p>    “I have no flower crown,” he said, “so I shall content myself with asking for your first dance this evening.”</p><p>    She had avoided it the first night, and the second, but she knew it would happen eventually; she bit back whatever long-buried fear there was in her and forced a smile.</p><p>    “A fight, perhaps,” she said. “The musicians have not yet arrived from the mainland.”</p><p>    Men from Tarth had played on previous nights, but they’d stuck to shanties and smallfolk songs at Brienne’s quiet request and it was easy to defer the dancing when they did.</p><p>    Albin smiled and bowed. “A dance of another sort, then,” he said, striding to the side of the yard to grab a pouch of water and take a swig.</p><p>    Brienne could see no harm in it, it might even be welcome, to use her own muscles, her own skill, and excused herself to take armour and weapon from the armory. </p><p>Jaime was still there, head bent, examining a few of the shields with a studiousness that must have been at least part pretense. She expected him to say something, <em>anything</em>, would almost have welcomed him sharp-tongued and cutting, but when she entered the room he looked up for only a moment before turning away. She grabbed a helm and breastplate, lamenting to herself that her own were kept in her quarters, for these were heavier and less familiar, and quickly pulled them on and tightened them without assistance. </p><p>Picking up a morningstar and shield as well as a second helm for Prince Albin, she returned to the yard. The men had all retreated to the benches that lined the room, save the Dornishman and Ser Addam; the first took the helm with a nod of his head, and the latter caught her arm as he moved off the grounds.</p><p>“He treats his left like it’s weaker than it is,” he whispered. “Be ready.”</p><p>She’d suspected, but the quiet confirmation was still useful. She gave a small nod of her head and squared up for the fight.  It had been years since a morningstar was her weapon of choice; a sword had been better for travel, and then she’d had Oathkeeper and… She touched it, still at her waist though she would not draw it in a spar. There had been little reason for a morningstar of late, but as they began she found it was a good to challenge herself, to not fall into complacency.</p><p>    She struck, dodged, struck, again and again, until her muscles burned and sweat dripped into her eyes, and still she pressed on and on, until he overextended and lost his balance, just for a moment; she lowered her shoulder and charged, knocking him to the ground, straddling him as they landed heavily against the dirt.</p><p>    “I yield,” he said, hands raised, blood on his lip and amusement in his eyes. Brienne stood and then offered him her hand to stand as well, and he took it even as he leapt to his feet. “Well fought, Ser Brienne.”</p><p>    “And you.”</p><p>    The prince swiped at his mouth, grimacing when it stung. Brienne turned her eyes to the windows, feeling the weight of her foolishness keenly.</p><p>    “We should return to the castle,” she said. “The rain has paused, and you should have that tended to.”</p><p>    “It’s merely a split lip,” Prince Albin said. “I’ve had worse from a child.”</p><p>    “Still.”</p><p>    “Very well,” said the Prince, grabbing his spear from where it had fallen and gesturing for the others to go ahead. He waited until they were alone, then touched Brienne’s arm softly to catch her attention. “Ser Brienne, I apologise if I offended you,” he said when she turned to him.</p><p>    Her brow furrowed. “You did not offend me.”</p><p>    “You seem… perturbed. I thought perhaps—” </p><p>    “No,” she said hastily. “I apologise. I am merely distracted, that is all.”</p><p>    Distracted by the weather, by the question of whether her victory had offended her guests, or made any of them less inclined to a marriage she knew she must make. Distracted by how good it felt simply to <em>fight</em>, before the spectre of politics raised its head once more. </p><p>    “Well, if you are certain…” he said, and raised his weapon and helm. “I will return these to the armory.”</p><p>    She followed him, ensuring all the weapons and armour were cleaned and returned to their correct places before leading the men towards Evenfall once more. It was near dusk, or seemed to be, and out of habit she lifted her face to the highest tower in the castle. A flame burnt brightly through the window, as it should.</p><p>    “What is up there?” asked Ser Simon, noticing her pause.</p><p>    “The belltower,” Brienne said. “It is Evenfall’s defense. One peal of the bell means a storm is coming and to take cover, two to warn the port villagers to head to higher ground. Three means pirates or another danger and to assemble the guard, and four or more means trouble further afield. There are similar towers all along the coast, and if the flame goes out it means they need aid.”</p><p>    “It is a good method,” Jaime remarked from where he lurked at the edge of the group. “Very practical. Very diligent.”</p><p>    <em>Piss off</em>, she very nearly said, but sighed instead and began to walk once more. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter Six</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Belated author's note: Good grief, I was so sleep deprived that I thought "Oh shit it's Thursday I need to update" and completely forgot I updated earlier in the week. Genius. Incredible. Too late now. 😂 I will likely skip posting next week (I keep saying this), and this is a better place to have a longer than average pause. So yay me? Yeesh.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    Another dinner. Another reason to sit and speak nicely and learn <em>nothing</em> about these men who sought her hand. Another… Brienne sighed and splashed water over her face, wiped the sweat of the fight from her arms and chest. Dressed again, in tunic and a split skirt. She could not—she did not have the keen observatory nature that would allow her to determine the sorts of men before her when there were so many at once. To evaluate them for a fight, yes, but as a husband she did not even desire? It was beyond her, and could not be sustained. </p><p>There was a knock on the door, and once again it swung open to reveal Roelle, the woman’s expression pinched.</p><p>“I’ve just seen Prince Albin’s face,” she said caustically, stomping over to Brienne. “Honestly, what were you thinking, child? He’s far better than you could expect from a husband, and you’re knocking him to the ground until he bleeds.”</p><p>“He knew what a spar entails,” Brienne said.</p><p>“From another man, perhaps, but you’re not one. However much you stomp around in breeches and short hair, however hard you swing that sword of yours, you are a woman and you are expected to act like one. For the good of your house, and your own health.”</p><p>No man would be in her position, that Brienne knew, but she had no interest in debating it with a woman about as warm as the wind at the Wall.  </p><p>“You seem under the impression I care for your opinion,” she said tightly. “I do not. I never have, and I have no desire to listen to it.”</p><p>    “Well, no one else seems willing to give it to you,” Roelle said haughtily. “But if you care so little, I won’t tell you what I came to say about your suitors.”</p><p>    “Is it that I ought to marry whatever fool is <i>willing</i> to marry me before I frighten them all away?”</p><p>“You shouldn’t speak to me that way. Your father would be ashamed.”</p><p>    It was low on a long list of reasons her father was likely ashamed of her, but they’d had that conversation before. Brienne turned her back to Roelle, taking her pot of beeswax and scooping out a bit to run through her hair. </p><p>    “You’re not curious?” Roelle needled.</p><p>    “No. But I am sure you will tell me soon enough, if you can use it to show how ungrateful I am.”</p><p>    Roelle sniffed. “Send those two Stormlanders away.”</p><p>    “There are three men from the Stormlands.”</p><p>    “The ones named Myles, then. The Musgood was bragging to the other how his father should have been named Warden, and how marrying you would remedy that quickly. Send them away now, before it becomes more than idle bragging.” Roelle sniffed. “You ought to send all three, the way they speak together, but you won’t listen to me.”</p><p>    The words set a squirming, snarling beast loose in Brienne’s gut, but she would not show fear, would not tremble before the reminder that she was a tool for ambitious men, a warm cunt and easy life for lazy ones.</p><p>“I would have thought it was in their favour, that they are determined to exert their manful authority,” Brienne said curtly, not lifting her eyes from her small looking glass. </p><p>“If I thought you capable of submitting to it, I might,” Roelle said. “But you are the most pig-stubborn fool I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing, and I can’t imagine that will change anytime soon. Women have been broken for less, and a pretty sword at your waist won’t change that. Send them away.”</p><p>Brienne would, she knew it, because she would not risk a man who thought power could be stolen from her like a fox in the night, but she would not give Septa Roelle the pleasure of saying any such thing.</p><p>“Is that all?” she asked. “The dinner bell will ring soon.”</p><p>The woman tsked and shook her head. “Mind who you beat next,” she scolded, “or you will find yourself without a husband at the end of this, you stubborn, undutiful girl.”</p><p>Brienne’s fist clenched, but she kept her face blank. “Thank you, as ever, Septa. My duty is between myself and my king, but if I have concerns about matters of faith I will be sure to consult you.”</p><p>“Sending you out into the world did you no good,” Roelle said. “You’re insolent now, on top of everything else. I cannot imagine what your father was thinking to allow it.”</p><p>Brienne could not either, but she thought of those long years. If there had been someone else with Catelyn Stark the night Renly was murdered, would they have followed her? Would they have gotten Jaime to King’s Landing? Whole, perhaps, or just as easily dead. Lady Sansa, Lady Arya, would their journeys home been simpler, or never done at all? She did not know, could not know. But she knew where they were now, what they had done.</p><p>“I am glad he did,” she said, rising from the chair.  Even if those few years were all she had, she had done the best she could. Had earned her title, her position. “If you will excuse me, I have a dinner to attend.”</p><p>***</p><p>It was a fine meal, fine company, fine, fine, fine. Dull. As soon as it was done, Brienne excused herself and returned to her rooms, found them confining instead of comforting. Changing back into jerkin and breeches and wrapping her thickest cloak around her, she slipped down a back corridor and through the kitchens to head into the dark and the small yard beyond. A fine beating on a training target ought to help.</p><p>She kept her head ducked to avoid the rain and wind that had picked up once more, the storm determined to blow itself through without respite, and perhaps that was why she did not notice the lamps were lit. Perhaps that was why Jaime did not hear her at the door. </p><p>The oil light thrown from the lamps made the first beads of sweat on his golden skin glisten, the light and shadows bringing it all out in stark relief. He had borrowed a training sword from the armory and was warming up, adjusting his stance to the sword’s weight, its length. He must have come straight from the dining hall; the doublet and shirt he’d worn were abandoned on the bench and he was bare from the waist up, and Brienne quietly watched the muscles of his back smooth and flex beneath his skin, remembered the feel of them beneath her palms as he drove into her, how he would grunt on each thrust, the way his mouth would twist up tight as he came close. The taste of him, salt-slick as she—</p><p>She watched him, and it was not his beauty or his strength that kept her rooted, nor the memory of how they had once been. There had always been a shame, buried deep, in him after he’d lost his sword hand; he would not hesitate to draw and charge, would not leave an unworthy fight unfought, but his disinterest in sparring with the others that afternoon had not surprised her. He had been the best swordsman in the kingdom, once, and now he was not. But as she watched him, he was better than even she had thought; his instincts were still there, his tactics. His strength had been rebuilt through diligence, and if his movements were not so natural, not so precise, he was still…</p><p>She should have said something, let him know that he was not alone. But she watched him instead, allowed herself this one indulgence, this one familiarity as the rain fell against the roof. It would be easy to slip away, guard her heart with reminders of all that had transpired, bolster her defenses with <em>he had left</em> and <em>he has been alive all this time and did not say</em>, with the knowledge that she would have no need to be here if she had known— But she had not. She had not known he was alive and had not known she would wed and had not known… She watched him, and said nothing.</p><p>Eventually he turned. He must have seen her—he stiffened, then began to move closer, and she <em>noticed</em>, she could not fail to notice, but she could not— There was a scar along his stomach, from the side of his ribs nearly to his navel, still raised and red, and she could not…</p><p>He was still moving towards her, and the scar was there, and— She lifted her eyes and found him watching her, concerned and curious in equal measure, his mouth parted as if to speak, and she could not….</p><p>She moved towards him, one step, two, drawn despite her better intentions, by his scar, by his silence so unlike him, perhaps a ghost after all, and then—</p><p>He was there, his chest rising and falling and his eyes so familiarly dark, he was there with his careworn features, the scars and the lines so dear to her, the nose flattened in the middle and how he’d always seemed the more beautiful for it. She’d forgotten, had made herself forget. Remembered him as the golden lion of Lannister, perfect and beyond mortal fathoming, the story she’d heard so many times before she’d known him. But he was there with his slightly crooked nose and the way his eyes crinkled in the corners, the way even at his most cutting there had been something <em>in</em> those eyes, some intensity, some kindness that had hooked deep within her. He was there, a dozen new scars on his skin—she’d traced them, in Winterfell, asked where this one or that had come from, and known them all—but none so obvious as the one that stretched from his side and across his stomach.</p><p>He’s almost died. He wasn't dead, but he had almost died, and there was the scar to prove it; she reached out, tentative, extended her fingers and allowed them to brush against the raised skin and—</p><p>His skin was warm, and she had to bite back a mad laugh at it. His skin was warm and he was here and he had almost died and she kissed him. </p><p>She shouldn’t have kissed him. She reeled back, hand coming to her lips, trembling slightly. She could not remember their last kiss. She had tried, some nights in the Lord Commander’s bed when sleep had eluded her, a certainty that if she could just remember <em>that</em> then the rest would not be so bad, the pain and the grief and the <em>anger</em> that he had left, that duty had driven him away and love was not enough to make him stay, but she could not <em>remember</em>. Had it been one of those sleepy, tender moments when neither was fully awake? Was it how he would always kiss her, after they were done, would kiss her and ask if she wanted him to leave? She wondered if he had asked that final night, if it had pained him all the more to leave because she had asked him to stay, or if her memory merely insisted he had, a last desperate clinging to them, to what they had been. She could not remember their last kiss, and it did not matter because it was no longer their last kiss. </p><p>Her hand fell away and she turned on her heel, determined to get away. Away. Into the rain and the dark and away from here, where he was alive and she could see the proof, feel it on her lips like the lingering sparks after a bright flash of light. </p><p>He grabbed her arm, a gesture as loud as any shout, and she pulled away, spun towards him once more, harsh words already on her lips. He had no <em>right</em>, no right to be here and no right to touch her and no right to ask her to stay when he had left, but the words failed her as she saw his scar once more. <em>He had almost died and he was alive</em>.</p><p>She kissed him again. Hard. There was no sweetness to be found, no gentle affection; he was alive and she kissed him as if she might find answers in his mouth, in the feel of his hair in her fist. She kissed him again and again, until they fell into a rhythm, until he gentled her with unnerving patience, until his hand tugged at the clasp of her cloak, one kiss and then another, his mouth so soft and warm against hers, and they did not speak as he took off her cloak, laid it over his forearm, kissing, kissing, and she let him, let him… </p><p>The cloak was spread onto the dirt of the training yard, and her jerkin and shirt were both removed and they still had not spoken, <em>you almost died but you’re not dead, why did you let me believe you were dead,</em> and he kissed her behind her ear, her neck, her collarbone until she forgot, then down further, lips against her breast, his teeth around her nipple, sharper than the rest. Not enough to hurt, but enough that she arched up, a needy little gasp stifled against her fist, and then she was tugging at his breeches, pushing them down, wrapping one hand around his newly-freed cock and moving; his eyes shut and his jaw clenched and he was alive.</p><p>    She kissed him, again and again, the rain pounding relentlessly against the glass windows, and they were safe and warm and alone, here in this room where no one else would think or dare to come. She kissed him until her jaw ached and his hips gave tiny thrusts in her hand, a mindless rutting when they both knew where… He kissed her collarbone again, kissed her breast, his tongue striking against its underside this time, down and down until his breath was against her cunt and she tugged him back up, so his weight rested against her. Kissed him. Twined her legs around his, kissed, kissed, as he slowly slid inside her, warm and alive as the storm raged, as he fucked her deep and slow as if they had all the time in the world. Kissed him as his thrusts turned erratic, as he panted against her mouth, as he pulled out just in time to spill against the dark dirt. Kissed him as he returned to her, as her fingers still lingered on the scar; he’d almost died, and he was alive, and she would take it with both hands if it meant a chance to keep him, if only for a time, if only in this silence. </p><p>She had always been a fool, but never more than when it came to him. </p><p>***</p><p>Jaime knew they should move. They lay, naked and sweaty with nothing save a cloak between their bodies and the dirt of the training yard, Brienne’s head on his chest. They hadn’t spoken, not one word since she’d come in, since she’d touched his skin and kissed his mouth, all the apologies and explanations superfluous in the face of her warmth and the fear she would leave. She was still there though, soft and pliant against him in a way she never allowed herself in Winterfell, her breath tickling his chest and her fingers tracing the line of his scar again and again, no sound save the rain above them. He knew they should move, should speak, but he pulled his arm around her tighter and stared upwards. </p><p>    They needed to talk. He knew they needed to talk. If nothing else, he needed to know <em>why</em>, needed answers for all the questions that whirled in his head. She stroked the scar again, her fingers looping around and around as if stitching the wound, and he laid his hand over hers.</p><p>“Why do you do that?” he asked.</p><p>She lifted her head, brow furrowed and something hidden in her eyes. “Do what?”</p><p>“Touch it like…” He tried to put it in words, the strange hesitant tenderness that she had, how her hand would not be still but would not stray. “Like you’ve not seen it before.”</p><p> Her hand flinched beneath his, and he wished he hadn’t said anything. </p><p>“Nevermind,” he said hoarsely. </p><p>“No,” she said, sitting up, reaching for her hastily discarded shirt. “It’s…” He could not read the look she gave him, confusion and sadness that made no <em>sense</em>, and then she turned her face away as she pulled the shirt on. </p><p>“It’s what?” he pushed her. “Ugly, I’ll admit, but not nearly so much as the hand. You never seemed to mind that.”</p><p>She shook her head, rising to her feet, and he scrambled up after her. Grabbed his breeches. </p><p>“Mayhaps it is fine enough for a maimed man to warm your bed—”</p><p>“Oh, piss off.” </p><p>She’d grabbed her breeches now, was angrily yanking them up her legs. </p><p>“You wish to have done it yourself, perhaps, for my cruelty.”</p><p>“Never.”</p><p>“I would not blame you, it was abhorrent.”</p><p>“No,” she repeated, quiet but adamant. “Just leave it be.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“No?” She looked up from her laces to glare at him, and the sadness was still there and he did not understand <em>why</em>, could not let it lie when answers were finally so close. </p><p>“What <em>is</em> it, Brienne? Because <em>I don’t know</em>.”</p><p>“It’s <em>new</em>, Jaime!” she shouted, shoulders rigid, then dropping. “How could I… How can you <em>ask </em>me that?”</p><p>He remembered King’s Landing. The dust that coated his lips, the fever that had racked his body, the pain. Remembered his brother, telling him to live, telling him that he must…</p><p>“You didn’t know,” he realised. It wasn’t a question. “Brienne, you didn’t… Tyrion told me— <em>Fuck</em>.” </p><p>She was frozen, her fingers on the laces of her half-knotted breeches and <em>she hadn’t known. </em>She hadn’t known and she was watching him and he had to explain, had to—</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>,” he repeated, running his hand over his face and almost dropping his breeches.  “I was injured, in King’s Landing. Trying to…” <em>surrender the city. Save Cersei, or the babe. Both. Neither. </em> He could no longer remember, not properly, all of it jumbled by his fevered mind, by his grief. “I had lost a lot of blood, fell unconscious in the tunnels into the Keep. Bronn found me, or Tyrion, or…”</p><p>“You were dead. In the rubble. That’s what his raven said, before we…”</p><p>He sighed. “I don’t have a lot of answers. I don't <em>remember </em>most of it. There was a house that hadn't burnt, and then the wound turned and I was... Tyrion said I had to leave, before Daenerys found me, that he’d arranged a boat. And I... I told him no, that I wasn't leaving you, not again, I didn't care if she…” He remembered this, remembered the clawing, desperate need to stay. “I fought him. It was pathetic, I was barely upright but I wouldn't give up, not until.... He told me you'd been, when I was asleep. That you were the one who told him, <em>ordered him</em>, to... " His voice cracked in the silence between them. </p><p>“No.” Her reply was small, like the weight of it was crushing her. It was crushing him.</p><p>“No,” he agreed. “You weren’t there. How could you be there, when I’d left you in Winterfell? But I never…” He scoffed. Tyrion had promised they would write. “I never questioned it. All these moons in Essos, waiting for you to… The weeks wore on and we began to hear, that Daenerys was dead, that a new king was to be chosen. And I thought…” He’d waited, because it seemed like the only thing he <em>could </em>do, to heal and to wait until she… “I waited, and then I heard you had become Lord Commander and I thought… how could I begrudge you that? What use was a man like me compared to such an honour?” </p><p>She looked… adrift. It was strange when she was usually so certain, so careful. “Jaime....” </p><p>He pushed on, had to so she <em>knew</em>, even if it was the wrong thing to do, she had to <em>know</em>. “When I heard you had left King’s Landing, had sent out offers of marriage… I thought perhaps you might— forgive me, if I explained why I left. I had to try, at least. I couldn’t— I’m a selfish man, at the heart of it, and I could not…”</p><p>“You never needed to be forgiven,” she said, her voice choked, her eyes back on the laces on her breeches though she made no move to tie them. “I knew why… Perhaps I didn’t know why. But I <em>trusted</em> you. Trusted that you were the man I believed you to be, even when… I couldn’t love you and not understand that, at least.”</p><p>“Did it help?”</p><p>She laughed, a sad, wet sound that stabbed him as true as any blade. </p><p>“No, not at all,” she admitted. </p><p>They were both silent for another long moment, the only sound soft movements as she finally secured her laces then reached for her jerkin, as Jaime pulled on his breeches. </p><p>“Why did you leave the Kingsguard?” he asked, pulling on a boot now and studying the ground. </p><p>She told him with halted, careful words all that she had tried to do as Lord Commander, how Bran had asked her to leave, how much was at risk if she did not make a good marriage. </p><p>“And there is no—”</p><p>“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No. The Kingsguard can marry, but cannot inherit lands. And if we—they could, I could not be the Evenstar and the warden and the Lord Commander all at once. I must be here.”</p><p>“And the men?”</p><p>She explained how each man had arrived, what advantages each marriage could bring. She avoided the subject of Addam, loud in its silence, and Jaime wondered how much he had known. Neither mentioned Jaime’s reasons for arriving, how little he could give on this front. It was cold, practical—she must marry for political gain, must bind herself to someone in exchange for grain for an army or to strengthen ties between disgruntled kingdoms, and she was certain it was the only choice before her. </p><p>They were both dressed by the time she was done, down to the cloak she lifted from the ground and shook the dirt from. She breathed deeply, met his eyes.</p><p>“I— No one would ever talk about you, after you died. And I could never… I was furious, at times. I could not understand how…” she gave a small laugh, bitter. “I am relieved you are not— I am pleased you are alive. It is of some comfort.”</p><p>She’d armoured herself before his eyes and he had not noticed, and the woman before him was…</p><p>“There was a babe,” he blurted, and she froze again, grimacing. It was the wrong thing to say, he knew it even as he’d said it but he needed to reach her, to explain, to— “She claimed it was mine, but… It was clear she’d gone mad, but no one else knew and…”</p><p>She looked at him sadly. “No,” she said. “No. Cersei wasn’t with child. Not by the time the army arrived in the south.”</p><p>He should be surprised. He wasn’t. Both his siblings had played him for a fool and he’d believed them, because he loved them. And he knew Brienne would… He could not face her kindness, and so he said, “Are you certain? Did you…”</p><p>“Tyrion,” she said. “I never understood why your brother… He would never speak of you, but he told me that. A few moons after—” Her hand raised, paused over her stomach, dropped hastily away, but it was enough.  “It does not matter.”</p><p>“You were…” He asked. Her chin wobbled, and <em>fuck</em>, he was moving towards her, reaching for her elbow, tugging gently to encourage her closer. She came, reluctantly but she came, her body stiff and still even as he could feel the heat of her. “Brienne, you were—” </p><p>“The maester said that he could not be certain, that the signs were…” she began, huffed as she lifted her eyes to the windows above them. “I took the tansy. It does not matter whether I was or not, I took it. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t raise a bastard and be Lord Commander and… <em>live</em> with it all, when you were— I believed it was the right choice. Do believe. I do not regret it.”</p><p>She remained tense, waiting for his reaction, defiant even in her unease.</p><p>“I trust you,” he said, all he could think to say; it was barely an echo of all he meant—he trusted her judgment and her goodness and her honesty, trusted that she was the woman he knew her to be—but it was enough, because she relaxed. Only slightly, the small distance between their bodies still a chasm he had no way to cross. </p><p>“If I had known…” she said, and he heard what she did not voice. She might have chosen differently, if she’d known she would find herself here instead, little more than a broodmare for strangers to pick over, a bartering tool for peace. He heard because he had his own uncertainties—if he’d known she believed him dead, if he’d known that he had abandoned one fight for another... </p><p>“Brienne…”</p><p>She shrugged. “Perhaps it would not have spared me regardless.” </p><p>“Perhaps.”</p><p>He tried to imagine it. He would have come back sooner, if he’d known. They might be wed by now, might have had a small babe. He tried to imagine it, and could not. There was only the path before them now, here in this quiet training yard late at night, in the way she let him hold her, in the way her fingers curled against his shoulder. </p><p>“I know you must…” he began, stumbled. “I know you must wed—”</p><p>“Jaime, I cannot…”</p><p>She could make no promises, not now. There were too many considerations, ones beyond her wishes, to make promises she could not keep. </p><p>“I only ask you allow me to stay,” he said hastily, not demanding but unable not to try. “Stay, and try, like any other suitor, to be the right choice.”</p><p>She nodded, stepped out his embrace, her face composed, impossible to read. </p><p>“Stay,” she said, then bowed her head. “Good night, ser.” </p><p>The silence of the now empty yards followed him as he began to tidy away all evidence they had been there at all. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter Seven</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm great at not updating. Fabulous. I haven't yet responded to comments on the last chapter because my internet has been up and down for most of the last two days, but love to all of you for your responses. 💕</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaime did not know how he’d slept that night, moons of suppositions neatly turned on their head and each revelation leading to more questions than he could marshal into rational thought. But he did, and woke up in a frightful temper. When Cliff arrived early in the morn, he barely spared the boy a glance as he pulled his jerkin on.</p>
<p>“I can—” Cliff began, motioning to the laces, and Jaime cut him off.</p>
<p>“Go to the cook, have two breakfasts sent to Ser Addam’s quarters. Tell her we’ll choose trays at random, so please refrain from spitting into any of it and she can oversalt my dinner this evening as much as she likes.”</p>
<p>Jaime’s tone must have conveyed the sincerity of his request, because Cliff nodded and scurried out of the room like an oversized colt finding his legs. As soon as Jaime was dressed, he left his room and went down the corridor, knocking on the door he knew to be his cousin’s. It opened to reveal another red-faced child, and Jaime pushed past him.</p>
<p>“Leave, boy,” he barked, sprawling into a chair and propping his feet against the edge of the table. “Now!”</p>
<p>The boy looked to Addam, who was staring at Jaime with a clenched jaw but nodded in agreement, and hastily retreated. When the door slammed shut behind him, Jaime crossed his arms over his chest.</p>
<p>“Who is castellan of Casterly?”</p>
<p>“What concern is it of yours? You seemed content enough to leave it to your brother while you played dead,” Addam shot back, which at least went some way to assuaging any niggling concerns Jaime had about his awareness of Tyrion’s actions; his friend was many things, but a good liar was not among them.</p>
<p>“I was content enough when I thought him clever,” Jaime replied. “Recent conversations have led me to believe that any wits he once possessed are long gone. Telling the entirety of Westeros I was dead, to begin with.”</p>
<p>Addam scoffed. “That was particularly stupid of you both, of course it was his idea.”</p>
<p>“<em>I didn’t know</em>.”</p>
<p>“How could you not know?”</p>
<p>Jaime shook his head, not quite ready to explain again. “It is— first, who is castellan?”</p>
<p>Addam’s jaw worked, but he eventually said, “Your cousin Daven.”</p>
<p>“And he’s competent?”</p>
<p>“From what I can tell,” Addam replied. “Last I heard, your Aunt Genna had arrived at the Rock and was offering her assistance. Father said he was very glad we were related through your mother and are spared that particular meddling.”</p>
<p>Jaime snorted. “And how is Gyl?”</p>
<p>“Tall,” Addam replied wryly. “Taller than Father, now, and still growing. I had intended to squire him by now, but…” he shrugged. “Between the war and— He seems so much younger than we felt, at his age. Father says that’s the way of it, but he was in no hurry to send him off either.”</p>
<p>There might have been a babe. It was the least of the horrors, but—</p>
<p>“How is your mother?”</p>
<p> Addam folded his arms, leaning against the table as he looked at Jaime. “Do you intend to explain?”</p>
<p>“No,” Jaime said, then amended, “Not yet.”</p>
<p>Pushing off the table, Addam huffed. “My mother is well. My sisters are well. My father has miraculously mellowed in his old age, though he remains as sharp as ever. The harvest was well, and the crossing to Tarth was well. I do not know what else to say.”</p>
<p>Jaime unfolded his arms, leant forward slightly to rap his knuckles against the table. “Why are you here?”</p>
<p>“You’re jealous.”</p>
<p><em>Yes</em>. “No.”</p>
<p>“You are. You’re practically seething with it.”</p>
<p>“You have avoided attempts to marry you off for the past… eleven years? Why are you here now?”</p>
<p>“Twelve,” Addam said quietly, and Jaime felt a stab of guilt at it. They rarely spoke of Elissa, and he could—should—have raised his point without doing it now.</p>
<p>“The question remains…”</p>
<p>“You were dead. Which you say you didn’t know—”</p>
<p>“I didn’t.”</p>
<p>“Yes, well…” Addam ran a hand over his face, his body tense. “Tyrion writes to me. Spoke so highly of Ser Brienne that I—”</p>
<p>There was a knock at the door, startling them both. Addam crossed the room to open it, and breakfast was brought in by Cliff and a kitchen maid. Jaime thanked the boy, then picked at the bread and preserves left behind. Addam did the same, slathering butter on a slice and chewing for far longer than the soft bread could possibly require.</p>
<p>“Tyrion wrote to you?” Jaime prompted.</p>
<p>Addam gave a curt nod. “Yes. He spoke very highly of Ser Brienne, to the point I believed him at least halfway to in love with her.” Jaime snorted, and Addam gave him his usual wry grin. “It was only when I remembered this was the woman who had come with you from the Stark camp, the one you spoke of so carefully in your few letters, that I realised it was not love, but guilt. Rumours of Winterfell did make their way south, in the end. I do not know whether he meant for me to be intrigued or…” Addam sighed. “I do not know what his intentions were, but when the letter arrived from Ser Brienne herself, I was… curious. It was such a strange thing. Like retiring your best hound at her prime just so she could throw whelps.”</p>
<p>“Probably best not to say that if you want a chance to woo her,” Jaime said dryly.  </p>
<p>“I don’t intend to woo her.”</p>
<p>“Your presence here suggests otherwise.”</p>
<p>“It is not— I told her, when I first arrived, that I meant to be a friendly face. It seemed… I had heard enough of her and the situation was so queer, I will confess I was curious and questioned whether she had any allies at all.”</p>
<p>    The Starks were gone, Podrick, even her Kingsguard brothers. “I… Thank you,” Jaime said. It felt odd to say—Addam had not done it for him, but he imagined Brienne alone with demands at all sides, and… </p>
<p>    “Don’t,” Addam shrugged. “I found once I arrived that I quite liked her.”</p>
<p>Jaime was surprised. "She is not a particularly friendly person," he remarked, and Addam laughed. </p>
<p>"No. She's rather like a blunt weapon when it comes to playing host, though she bites her tongue just as often."</p>
<p>"She has better manners than half the lords I know, and more honour than any of them," Jaime said defensively. </p>
<p>"It was not a criticism, Jaime. She’s…” Addam rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. Sighed. “I have no particular reason to like her when I have known her for so short a time, but I <em>do</em>.  What you did to her was remarkably cruel.”</p>
<p>“And what is it you believe I did?” Jaime said, flashing his cousin a sharp look. </p>
<p>“You bedded a Highborn woman, publicly and repeatedly. No wonder she loved you, and believed you—”</p>
<p>“Do <em>not</em>,” Jaime said through clenched teeth, his hand reaching for a sword he had not worn, “speak of things you know nothing of. <em>Ever</em>.”</p>
<p>Addam bristled. “I suppose I’m wrong. Perhaps you were merely dear friends. Perhaps I imagined the grief she hardly seems to know she is carrying. Perhaps <em>she</em> knew you lived and was grateful you were gone, but from the shock on her face I doubt it. The harm was done to her reputation regardless.”</p>
<p>“Shut your fucking mouth,”Jaime growled, rising to his feet.</p>
<p>Addam shrugged. “She has some protection from it, but you cannot be surprised. The freedom to whore around comes with the cock, not the knighthood.”</p>
<p>“Who?”</p>
<p>He’d kill them. He’d kill every single one and to the seven hells with the consequences. </p>
<p> “She does not need or desire your defense—”</p>
<p>“What would you know of her desires?” Jaime snarled. </p>
<p>“This jealous fit does not become you,” Addam said with a level tightness that betrayed how furious he was. “And neither does showing up now, when she is attempting to make a betrothal.”</p>
<p>“I know that! Do you think that I would— You know <em>nothing</em> about this.”</p>
<p>“Well you’ve been so forthcoming!”</p>
<p>“This conversation is over,” Jaime said. “Don’t bother—” Another knock at the door interrupted whatever cutting remark he meant to make, and he shook his head when Addam moved towards it. “Don’t trouble yourself, I was just leaving.”</p>
<p>He stormed over to the door, hauling it open forcefully to find Brienne on the other side. </p>
<p>“Ja—Ser Jaime!” she said, her pleased smile falling at his expression. “Are you—”</p>
<p>He glanced down the corridor and finding it unoccupied pulled her into the room, grasping the back of her head and kissing her harshly as soon as she was inside. She groaned against his mouth and he thought perhaps he’d— but she pulled him closer instead, and when they parted there was only concern for him in her eyes.</p>
<p>“I came to speak to Ser Addam, but…”</p>
<p>“I’m fine,” he said roughly. “I can— I will be in my quarters. Enjoy your conversation with my dear cousin. One of us ought to.”</p>
<p> And refusing to look back, he left. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Brienne stared at the heavy wooden door, still feeling the dig of Jaime’s fingers against her scalp, the bruising force of his kiss, the first pleasing spark that had quickly turned scalding. More possessive than passionate, and she could not understand...</p>
<p>    A soft cough interrupted her thoughts, and she turned, remembering why she had come. This she could do.</p>
<p>    “Ser Addam,” she said, bowing stiffly to him. He was watching her carefully, and she drew her shoulders square, falling back on the formal, practiced words she had used on the other men. “As you were not at breakfast, I have come to inform you we intend to ride to the port village after luncheon, to farewell the men who have been asked to leave. You are welcome to join, or to remain at Evenfall. Tomorrow we will ride further, if the weather holds.”</p>
<p>    “Is Jaime among those to go?”</p>
<p>    She flinched. There was a surprising bitterness to his question, and it cut through her as surely as flame against wax. “That is not— Ser Jaime and I have come to an understanding of past events.”</p>
<p>    “So it appears,” Addam sneered; it transformed his features into something ugly. </p>
<p>    “You cannot— you cannot be <em>unhappy</em> that he lives,” she said, hoping she had not misjudged the man so much as that. </p>
<p>    Addam shook his head. “No. Not unhappy. But it is—” He sighed, and slumped into a chair. “I do not know that man, who would treat his friends so. It is difficult not to wonder if <em>that</em> is who he has always been and my affection had blinded me. There are many who would say so.”</p>
<p>    “And they would be wrong, surely you know that.”</p>
<p>    “Do I? It has been the better part of a <em>year</em>, ser. Not one letter to anyone, not one apology once he arrived. And when I questioned it…” Addam shook his head again. “I do not know that man. I am not certain I wish to.”</p>
<p>    “If you feel so strongly, perhaps you ought to return to the mainland with the others,” she said tightly. “Ser Jaime is a guest of Evenfall, and you will not speak of any guest in such a manner.”</p>
<p>The anger on his face fell away, replaced with blank disinterest. “Of course, ser. Forgive me, I spoke out of turn.”</p>
<p>“You did,” she agreed. “But I understand that these are… complicated circumstances. I will not hold it against our friendship.”</p>
<p>He inclined his head. “Thank you, ser.”</p>
<p>“I have matters to attend to now, but I hope you will join us in the village, and choose to stay,” she said, formal once more and moving towards the door. And then, because she could not leave well enough alone, added, “He did believe— Lord Tyrion sent him away because his life was in danger. When no message arrived to request his return… I cannot speak for him. I <em>will </em>not. But I think… perhaps he had his reasons.” </p>
<p>Behind her, Addam sighed. “Even if that were so, it does not excuse his behaviour in Winterfell.”</p>
<p>“What behav—” <em>Oh</em>. Of course. The thing none would acknowledge, nor forget. She turned to face him once more, unashamed. “Ser Addam, if your concern is that we were lovers in the North and he… took some advantage of me, let me reassure you that nothing that happened there was a result of girlish innocence or false promises. I took him to bed because I wished to. The end of the world had come and we had not died, and why should we <em>not</em> celebrate that?”</p>
<p>“And yet he left.”</p>
<p>“There were no promises made,” she said tightly, the angered flush of her face the only thing keeping the cold of a Winterfell courtyard at bay. She could not allow herself— “From either of us.”</p>
<p>“No. I suppose he would not have done that. But he left, and now he has returned and kisses you as if you are—”</p>
<p> <em>A possession</em>. It still burned on her lips. </p>
<p>“Ser Addam, I wonder if you know him at all, if you think so little of him.”</p>
<p>“And I wonder if you do, to have such certainty in his actions.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps you should <em>speak</em> with him, and not presume,” Brienne said tersely. “Good day.”</p>
<p>Opening the door, she left. Once in the corridor, she strode towards a small alcove with a window that overlooked the courtyard. It was bustling with servants attending their duties. Her people. Her fingers gripped the rough stone of the window ledge, anchoring her. None of this mattered. The marks burnt on her skin, left behind by his beard, his lips, his teeth did not matter. Her love for him did not matter; if anything, to give way to his heat would be to burn like straw, quick and complete. She had done that once, had spent these months trying to douse its embers. It did not matter. She looked down at her hands, saw the faint tremble in them. </p>
<p>She had duties to attend to, and she released her hold.  </p>
<p>    Brienne was still vibrating as she arrived at her father's solar, and she clenched her fist and breathed deeply once, twice, before knocking on the door. His call to enter was as hearty as ever, and when she pushed open the door he was behind his desk with papers spread before him and a smile on his face.</p>
<p>    “Daughter, you’re late,” he said.</p>
<p>    “I’m not,” Brienne countered. “Breakfast is only just now done.”</p>
<p>    “Still. I expected you sooner.”</p>
<p>    The previous days’ storm had abated, leaving behind only a grey sky and a cool breeze that drifted in from her father’s opened windows. He must have caught her gaze, because he laughed again.</p>
<p>    “Time soon to rid yourself of the Kingslayer. A relief, yes?”</p>
<p>    “I told you not to call him that,” Brienne said, crossing the room to sit in the chair on the other side of the desk, folding her hands in her lap. “What are the papers?”</p>
<p>    “Taxes. The mountain folk had a poor shearing season and cannot pay.”</p>
<p>    It was not the first time such a thing had happened, but so soon after a winter it was worrisome. Poor yield meant poor profits, and poor profits meant starvation if the Evenstar did not intercede.</p>
<p>    “Do we have enough in the coffers?”</p>
<p>    “Aye, and stores yet left from winter.”</p>
<p>    So it was not the taxes that had made her father summon her. Still, she took the nearest sheaf of papers and threw herself into the task, estimating supplies and distribution, and ignoring his curious gaze.</p>
<p>    “The wagons won’t go beyond the second pass, unless we take them all the way around to the far side of the island,” she said. “I’d suggest we take it by boat, but in the storm season…”</p>
<p>    Once you were in the mountains, the storms were less trouble, but going by sea would be a fool’s errand. Still, it would not be the first time they had— Oh. A test. She’d forgotten her father’s proclivity for them, when he thought she had not minded her lessons.  </p>
<p>    “We’ll arrange for a supply caravan, and take it by packhorse once we reach the pass. If we send messengers now, we can centralise distribution as much as possible—so many settlements are only a handful of homes, and we could spend weeks otherwise.”</p>
<p>    “Very good,” her father said. “Present me with the details tomorrow morn. Everything you require will be in the papers.”</p>
<p>    “I am not a child in need of her lessons marked, Father.”</p>
<p>    “I did not claim you were.”</p>
<p>    “But it was your intention.”</p>
<p>    “I don’t deny your experience, Brienne, but Tarth has… unique challenges. I must ensure you are equipped for them.”</p>
<p>    “You would do better to worry about my political cunning than this.”</p>
<p>    He father grunted. “On that matter…” He clicked his tongue, the way he did when he was short on words; she glanced up at him, found he was watching her, his brow furrowed in concern. “Brienne, have you— There is something you are not telling me about this. Surely there were men you knew, whom you could at least respect. Instead you’ve thrown yourself on the mercy of strangers. Families you barely know. This cannot be—”</p>
<p>    “The King ordered my marriage,” she said. Her lips pressed together. “There it is. I had no intention of leaving the Kingsguard and returning to Tarth. Half a year ago I was told there would be no need to, and I thought that I could—” The paper in her hand crumpled, and she forced herself to release it, smooth it carefully. Study the numbers on it as she quietly said, “I believed that I might serve with my skills, not… It does not matter. I must make a good marriage.”</p>
<p>    “My girl....”  </p>
<p>There was such gentleness in his voice that she felt tears prick at her eyes. “It was a foolish hope, father.”</p>
<p>“No.” </p>
<p>Brienne looked up. </p>
<p>“Brienne, I… I know you did not—” he gave a harsh laugh. “You have the soul of a knight, have since you were a babe, and you have pursued that with a devotion few can claim. Matters of a small island must seem insignificant in the face of it. But you… You will wear the mantle well, when your time comes. And not because you have a womb, or wed a Dornish prince.” </p>
<p>Selwyn stood, moved towards the window. Brienne remained seated, her fingers curling over the pommel of her sword, drawing comfort from it as she always had. </p>
<p>“I wished to see you wed,” he said to the window, “for many years. To keep you safe, and give you the joys of children. I would take every one of those moments back, if I could. A good marriage—a <em>true</em> marriage is… It is to know and be known, to trust another. To know that when duty grows heavy, you do not bear the weight alone. <em>That </em>is what I should have wished for you. What I have missed since your mother passed.”</p>
<p><em>Jaime</em>. A life that might have been. It had been an idle dream, even then. And now...</p>
<p>“I do not have that luxury, father.”</p>
<p>He sighed, ducked his head. “I know, my girl,” he said softly. “But I hope that I may, at least, offer you some guidance so that it may be as tolerable as possible.”</p>
<p>His back was still to her, and she raised a hand to her eyes to dash away the tears that had gathered at the corners.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” she said softly, uncertain what else there was to say. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>    Her father did not keep her long, neither of them at ease with the exposure his words had brought, or the uncomfortable truths she’d tried to ignore. Afterwards, Brienne retreated to her quarters to fetch the saddlebag she’d packed earlier in the morning. She looked out the window, remade the bed though the chambermaid had already been, picked up a spare set of boots. She lingered over the chest where Widow’s Wail lay, but could not bring herself to lift the lid and face the mangled hilt. Then she sighed, knowing she could not delay any longer; slipping from the room, she headed towards the guest wing.</p>
<p>    Jaime’s room was on the far end of a corridor, and she glanced over her shoulder before rapping on the door three times in quick succession then once more after a pause; it had been Jaime’s signal, after that first night, and for a moment…</p>
<p>    He pulled open the door before she could think too deeply, flashing her a soft, warm smile and stepping aside. He did not try to kiss her again, and her mouth ached from the absence even as she entered the room, glanced around. It was the smallest of the guest quarters, but the view of the harbour was unparalleled from this wing. She moved towards the window, tossing the boots and bag on the table as she passed.</p>
<p>    “Clothes,” she said, brusque as she could manage. “I noticed your boots were worn nearly through, and…”</p>
<p>    Gulls swooped over the water, blue-grey in the aftermath of the storm. She leaned forward, trying to catch the salt from the surf in her lungs, to feel the stone beneath her palms.</p>
<p>    “Thank you,” he said from behind her; she resisted the urge to turn and look at him, not trusting herself to remain distant, to say what she had come to say.</p>
<p>    She heard the soft rustle of the saddlebags opening, and then his exhale.</p>
<p>“Yours?”</p>
<p>“They should fit, or near enough. I didn’t...”</p>
<p>He groaned. “This might kill me.”</p>
<p>She laughed. “I rather prefer you alive.”</p>
<p>It was only when the words had left her mouth that she realised what she had said, what—</p>
<p>“Brienne…”</p>
<p>The apology was there in his voice, and she shook her head quickly, still not trusting herself to look. If she saw the regret… She could not. </p>
<p>“No more needs to be said on the matter, or we will forever be…” She could imagine it so easily, a stilted conversation time and time again, whenever their paths crossed in King’s Landing, or— “You did what you must, and we both paid a price for it.”</p>
<p>“As you wish.”</p>
<p>They fell silent, Jaime changing clothes behind her and the waters of Tarth in her view.  </p>
<p>    “There is a blacksmith,” she said, when the silence became unbearable, “in the village to the north, who makes hooks, for sailors. I am sure she could make a hand for you, if you—”</p>
<p>    “Would you prefer that?”</p>
<p>    She spun to face him at that, unable to read the expression on his face. Unable not to notice the half-laced shirt on his body, or forget the scar that lay beneath it. </p>
<p>    “I do not care, and even if I did my opinion is not what matters. You always…” He’d always worn it outside their chambers in Winterfell, even when the cold gold had chafed the skin raw.  “Last night, you called it ugly. I wanted you to know it was an option. You wore it for a reason, once.”</p>
<p>    “I shouldn’t have,” he said, bitterness twisting his lips. “I should have thrown the thing into the bay and been done with it years ago. No small conveniences can outweigh the reminder that I am not who I once was, for worse or for better. It is cloying.”</p>
<p>    She grunted, turned back to the window. “Then do not. It is not for me to say.”</p>
<p>    “You think I am wrong.” His tone was arch. Challenging.</p>
<p>    “I think that you once…” She sighed. “It is not for me to say, Jaime. You are the same man with or without it, as far as I can see.”</p>
<p>“A coward?”</p>
<p>“A man of honour,” she said softly. “One of contradictions.”</p>
<p>It was more than she should say, and not enough. </p>
<p>He scoffed, the bitterness so thick it coated her own tongue. “A man with nothing of worth.” </p>
<p>The chair creaked, and when she turned back he had sunk into it, buried his face in his hand. These last moons had brought out the grey of his temples, or perhaps the light was clearer here. She took a step towards him, stopped herself. It would be easy, to wrap her arms around his shoulders, press a kiss to the crown of his head. <em>You have your honour. You have my love. </em>It was not enough.</p>
<p>“Why do you think he did it?” he asked after a long moment. She did not think she imagined the tears roughening his voice.  “My brother.”</p>
<p>“I… I don’t know,” she answered. “To protect you, and then…” She did not know.</p>
<p>Jaime scoffed. “I could ask him, but I do not know that I could bear his answer. Perhaps it <em>was</em> to protect me from those who wish me ill. Perhaps it is revenge, or a grasp for power.” A pause. “He was the one that freed me, you know. I didn’t...”</p>
<p>“I know.”</p>
<p>Silence again. Then he stood abruptly.  </p>
<p>    “I’ll write to my Aunt Genna,” he said, striding towards the small desk in the corner of the room. “Addam mentioned she has been at Casterly, and if there’s anyone who can…” he trailed off, having dug out parchment and ink. “As much as I appreciate the clothes, I cannot trespass on your hospitality so completely. A well-crafted message will keep her silent, but she will send coin.” He grimaced. “Most likely. The truth will come out, I know, but…”</p>
<p>    Brienne breathed deeply. “That might be wise. If you wrote to Tyrion, the King would be sure to learn of it.”</p>
<p>    Jaime glanced over his shoulder. “You don’t believe he knows?”</p>
<p>    It hadn’t— “You believe he <em>does</em>?”</p>
<p>    “You have seen him more recently than I,” he said, aiming for insouciant; she could read the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand flexed as if to reach for a sword. “But he spares no love for me, rightfully, and I cannot imagine he does <em>not</em> know.”</p>
<p>    Brienne shook her head, a sick feeling growing in her gut. “No. No, he would not. No. He said— he said he sees glimpses, possibilities. If he knew—” If he knew Jaime was alive and had not said… But no. He could not have.</p>
<p>“Brienne—” He stepped towards her. </p>
<p>She stepped back. Shook her head. “It is fine. I’m sure he does not know, but I think… The news will reach him soon enough, but perhaps it is best if it is not yet. Not until you know why your brother…”  Tyrion had known, he’d known and said <em>nothing</em> and she could not fathom it. Could not… “It might seem as if you have come to undermine his power by reclaiming Casterly from the Hand of the King, rather than…. It might be best to wait.”</p>
<p>It wasn’t quite what she meant, but Jaime nodded and sat down, began writing with a determination that seemed at odds with his aimlessness only moments before. Brienne could flee now, she knew she could, but her feet were leaden and her heart heavier. None of this was why she had come. She watched him write, studied the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his lip caught between his teeth as he mulled over his words. They had never had this intimacy, not truly, and yet every part of it was familiar. Every part of it was—</p>
<p>“You cannot kiss me again.”</p>
<p>His quill froze, and even from her position she could see the drop of ink spread across his words. He set it aside, but did not turn to face her.</p>
<p>“If this is about Addam’s room—”</p>
<p>“No,” she said, her voice cracking. “No, you know it’s not. If I am to… If I am to treat you as I would any other suitor, then I cannot—”</p>
<p>“I know,” he said quietly. </p>
<p>“Good,” she said, as steadily as she could. “Good.”</p>
<p>And then she fled the room.  </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter Eight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It took most of Brienne’s control to make her way back to her own quarters, ducking down a side corridor when her route nearly crossed with Simon Graceford—it was only the book in his hand that spared her the excruciating encounter with the odd, earnest man. She was not certain she could smile and speak sweetly through a conversation when her body still shook from the conversation in Jaime’s room, from the strength of his kiss and the memory of his tenderness the night before. </p>
<p>When she reached her rooms, she took only a moment to breathe deeply before striding towards the large table to peruse the papers her father had given her, spreading them before her to take it all in at once. <em>This </em>she could do, study numbers and maps to arrange for the distribution of grain amongst the mountain folk, a skill taught in childhood lessons and honed at Sansa’s side in Winterfell. It was of no use though; her reading was plagued by thoughts of Jaime, of his tale the night before, of the implications it carried. The grain would—must—wait, for she could not be certain she would judge clearly. </p>
<p>She considered heading to the training yards, her body restless, but even that invoked Jaime, the way he had moved, the way he had kissed her, the curling horror as he’d explained— No, she could not train yet.  </p>
<p>    Her correspondence then. She still had not replied to Sansa’s last letter in King’s Landing, uncertain what there was to say and disinclined to commit what little she did know to paper, but if she were to head to the docks later, she ought to take the time.</p>
<p>She moved from the large table to the smaller writing desk, stopping to retrieve Sansa’s letter and rereading it. The words were as comforting as they had been in the past, but they did not offer her further insights. Still, she would reply, and so she took her seat, lifted her quill. She looked out of the window for a long moment. </p>
<p><em>    Your Grace,</em> she began, <em>As you will have no doubt heard by now, I have safely settled on Tarth and my suitors have arrived. I think often of your suggestion to test the men to judge their mettle, and must find a way to do so. Some have not lasted more than a few days, by youth or greed, and perhaps I will find it simpler now, or will arrange opportunities to spend time with each alone. In a group, they are too obsequious, too eager to flatter and distinguish themselves but offering nothing of substance. Nine men responded to my invitation, and seven remain despite three returning home this very day. Is that not strange?</em></p>
<p>    Brienne studied the words, dissatisfied. Set the paper aside and selected a fresh one.</p>
<p>    <em>Queen Sansa</em>, she attempted this time, <em>My lady,</em> <em>I am more certain than ever that most men are odious, toadying creatures easily persuaded to like one woman or another by very little virtue at all. They certainly do not seem inclined to distinguish themselves. Some of my suitors are quiet, others loud; some adept with a sword, others too soft to have ever needed weapons. But as they arrived, not one offered something true. I would rather honest revilement than pleasantries offered to any woman. One complimented my eyes, though I am not certain he had looked at my face for more than a breath! I will admit that I enjoyed asking him what colour they were, and if his reply of ‘changeable in the light’ was not accurate, it did at least assure me that he could play at niceties as a lord.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>A tenth man arrived, one who had not answered my letter. A man I once fought beside, some time ago now. It was strange to see a familiar face here, but not unwelcome. He is a soldier with no lands and no wealth, which would make him a poor match indeed and I do not believe he has hopes of success. And yet I have not asked him to leave as I have others, simply because he has seen me as something other than a lord’s heir in the past.</em>
</p>
<p>No, that would not do. It would only beg too many questions. Another attempt then, this letter set aside for scrap. </p>
<p><em>My dear friend</em>. It was far too familiar, but Brienne did not write to the Queen of the North on this matter. Let her be familiar. <em>The man I love is alive. </em>The words sat heavy on the page, echoed by the ache in her breast. <em>He is alive and seeks my hand, and I know I must decline his offer. Duty has never tasted so bitter, and for the first time in my life  I do not know how I will bear it</em>. The ink ran, the words bleeding together until they could not be read.</p>
<p>Brienne stood. Moved. Watched the paper furl in on itself as it burnt in the hearth. </p>
<p>She would send no letter today.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>When his letter was done—it was carefully composed, revealing nothing for certain and trusting that his aunt would draw the correct conclusions all the same—Jaime headed down to the hall for his luncheon. Most of the other suitors were already present, and he sprawled and grinned at them as he had before. This would—could—not change, and as the conversation washed over him he was certain it had not.</p>
<p>How he would face Brienne with this between them he was less sure of. He’d <em>known</em>, had known and spent hours the night before hoping that there was some simple solution to their dilemma—Tyrion could send an absurdly large dowry, or…. It had only led to more questions, more doubts, and if he saw those same uncertainties in her eyes….</p>
<p> He need not have worried; she appeared just as the men were finishing their meal, dressed in a grey tunic and breeches, the hilt of Oathkeeper in her hand as it had so often been when she’d surveyed the preparations and training in Winterfell. The scabbard was different, a plain brown leather that did not sit quite right on her belt, but she seemed entirely herself. </p>
<p>“Good day,” she greeted them all, bowing her head. “If you are intending to join the ride down to the port, please speak now so I can have the appropriate horses saddled.”</p>
<p>Jaime surveyed the men as they answered in turn. Addam declined, as did the Iron Islander and the pretty Beesbury fellow. One of the Stormlanders—he really ought to learn their names—said he would come to see his friends off, which presumably meant the two surly men beside him. The squint-faced one said that he would take the chance to wander the gardens instead, if Brienne didn’t mind, his spoon tapping the edge of his bowl nervously; for a moment, Brienne glanced towards Jaime, and he did not think he imagined the wry amusement in her expression, but then she’d looked away once more. That left the young man from the Riverlands, who said something about his trunks being packed, and the Dornish prince who smiled and said he looked forward to it. </p>
<p> “Am I invited, ser?” Jaime asked. “I have a letter rather too long for a raven, but I do not wish to intrude.”</p>
<p>Awkward, perhaps, but better than too familiar.</p>
<p>“Of course, Ser Jaime,” she said with the same bland disinterest. “I was remiss in not mentioning it to you when we spoke this morning.”</p>
<p>This morning when he had kissed her with more frustration than passion, aware and unwilling to believe it might be the last opportunity he had. He would not hurt her, not intentionally, and if that meant he could not kiss her now, could not pull her into some small alcove and run his fingers up her spine, offer her his neck…. If he must do that to ease some of her burden, he would. </p>
<p>Beside him, a throat was cleared. “If the offer remains, I will join you after all.”</p>
<p>Jaime could feel his cousin’s eyes on him, and did not look. Brienne merely nodded. </p>
<p>    “Of course, Ser Addam. I will see you all soon.”</p>
<p>    With a final stiff and courteous farewell, Brienne was gone and the meal resumed. </p>
<p>    After the luncheon, the men traveling to the port village met in the courtyard, where a carriage and saddled horses waited for them. Brienne was already mounted, reins loose in one hand as she issued commands with ease. It made the moment she turned to the suitors and gave a tight, unnatural smile all the more obvious, though she masked it quickly, and Jaime was reminded of needling her early in their acquaintance, searching for any weakness in her armour, any spark of emotion beyond the cold air of certainty that shrouded her. He was grateful for the experience now, and resentful of its need. </p>
<p>    He was still watching her as he approached one of the horses, and so he noticed the slight shake of her head, the finger pointed at an unassuming grey gelding instead, the pleased crinkle of her eyes when he complied. </p>
<p>“You’ll appreciate it come the hunt,” she said quietly as she passed him, and before he could ask why she was far ahead, leading the group through the gates.</p>
<p>It was Jaime’s first time seeing beyond the walls of Evenfall Hall in daylight, and Brienne took them on a longer road down to the village than the one he had followed the stormy night of his arrival. He studied the countryside, trying to reconcile the few stories Brienne had told him of Tarth with the lands that surrounded him, wild and beautiful and filled with a loneliness so different to his memories of Casterly Rock—there it had been the vast spaces, caverns and tunnels and halls, but here it was easy to lose sight of others through the trees, the dips and rises, the isolation of an island days away from the mainland. No wonder she had loved her island. No wonder she had fled. </p>
<p>The subject of his contemplations was unaware of the scrutiny, riding between the men, stray beams of sunlight hitting her hair, every movement measured, armoured. She was always so careful, and it made the moments she broke—in anger early in their acquaintance, but later in delight or pleasure or amusement—all the more precious.</p>
<p>    They were not far into the journey when Jaime felt more than saw the horse pull alongside him, and heard Addam’s soft cough. He refused to look, or acknowledge—</p>
<p>“Do you recall the undercook at Casterly Rock?”</p>
<p>Whatever opening salvo Jaime had expected, it was not this. She'd been a wiry woman with arms strong enough to lift young boys by their collars if they'd gotten too close to the cakes, but would slip them bread for their adventures in her next breath.</p>
<p>"Yes," he said curtly, glancing towards his cousin.</p>
<p>"Tyrion does not. He was too young.” Addam shifted. “And the rest of the boys who followed you around as if you were already lord are dead now, most in the war.”  </p>
<p>Jaime could not remember them all, but it was not hard to imagine; some days it seemed more people had died than lived. </p>
<p>“That is war.”</p>
<p>“Do not speak to me of—” Addam exhaled sharply. “I am aware. Still, it was not a pleasant thing, to be the one left behind. When you appeared, I... presumed the worst. You were alive, and making a grand entrance as if it were some lark."</p>
<p>"I didn't—" Jaime sighed. Glanced around to ensure no other riders were in listening distance and then said, "My ship was delayed. I did not intend to arrive in that manner, and I did not know she believed me dead. I had thought that I would arrive and plead for her forgiveness, and be gone before the others arrived if she would not grant it."</p>
<p>"And when you arrived late, it did not occur to you to wait until the morning, seek a private audience?"</p>
<p> All he'd thought about was seeing her again, knowing whether or not he stood a chance. "No."</p>
<p>Addam was silent for a long moment, and then, “She is a kinder defender than you deserve.”</p>
<p>    Jaime’s hand tightened on the reins, and his mount shifted. “I know.”</p>
<p>     He glanced ahead to where Brienne was riding alongside the Dornish man, her head tilted slightly as they spoke, intent on the conversation. The man, in turn, spoke with vivacity, hands gesturing and his head falling back when he laughed. He was handsome, Jaime realised sharply, with high cheekbones and an open smile; it would be easy for Brienne to see it too, and the thought was bitter. It was not that he thought her faithless, it was just…    </p>
<p>It should be him, and it was not, and he was selfish enough to resent it more than he regretted.</p>
<p>"I cannot imagine it will take her long to forgive you," Addam said, not unkindly.</p>
<p>"Forgiveness is not the impediment," Jaime replied.</p>
<p>Addam grunted. "Be that as it may..."</p>
<p>Jaime could not think of that. Could not bring himself to imagine more than this moment, and the next, hoping for some chance to arise that would allow...</p>
<p>“I am sorry,” he said, after a long minute, “that I did not write.”</p>
<p>“Why didn’t you?”</p>
<p>It had not occurred to Jaime, not truly, that anyone would mourn his passing. Hadn’t even known that he <em>was</em> reported dead, at first, not until rumours had reached the docks of Myr. </p>
<p>“I was wounded when Tyrion sent me away,” he said carefully. “Quite severely. And so I put too much faith in my brother’s honesty. I did not— Until last night, I had every reason to believe Brienne knew that I was alive and how to reach me. I… I presumed you must know, or that it was unsafe for you to, or that you did not care. That Tyrion had <em>lied</em> did not—” He swallowed hard, the question of <em>why</em>, why had his brother released him and why had he sent Jaime away and why had he not written when the danger had passed, pushing against Jaime’s throat. “I am sorry.”</p>
<p>“You always trusted too easily.”</p>
<p>Jaime grunted in agreement.    Ahead of them, Brienne had ridden forward, and Jaime used the opportunity to nudge his mount ahead to end the conversation. Unfortunately, it drew him level with the Dornish man just as they reached a tight turn in the road. </p>
<p>“You knew Ser Brienne before?” the man asked.</p>
<p>“Yes.” </p>
<p>“You were…”</p>
<p>It was not a subtle questioning, but it did not have to be.</p>
<p>“Companions on a journey. Friends, eventually.”</p>
<p>“Ah.”</p>
<p>“You seem to have earned her favour,” Jaime said, hoping to turn the conversation away, trying not to look directly at the man. Albin, he finally recalled. </p>
<p>“She is… courteous. To all but you, it seems.”</p>
<p>    Jaime laughed, and if it was a little bitter Albin did not seem to note it. “Neither of us is good at courtesies,” he said, “and once you have fought alongside each other, they are not expected. It is not… She did not write to <em>me </em>with offers of marriage.”</p>
<p>    “And yet you are here.”</p>
<p>    Jaime pressed his lips together and said nothing.</p>
<p>“Why <em>are</em> you here?” Albin pressed. “This is… not a match a man of your House would expect to make.”</p>
<p>“Did you not hear? I am a dead man, and dead men have no use for Houses.” </p>
<p>“Still.”</p>
<p>“<em>You</em> are a Martell,” Jaime pointed out. </p>
<p>“A Martell with four older siblings. I will not inherit much of note without making a good marriage, and there are not many suitable matches to be made.” Albin shrugged. “Tarth is beautiful, and advantageous for trade with Dorne. And Ser Brienne is remarkable—I'd take an island of half this value for a wife so intriguing.”</p>
<p>    “Intriguing,” Jaime repeated. It was better than half the words he had thrown at her, in the beginning, but it did not come close to encompassing all that she was. </p>
<p>“Indeed.” Albin smiled, and Jaime could see no artifice in it, no cunning. No sharp edges for Brienne to test herself against.  “It is not hard to imagine we’d grow quite fond of each other, given time—she is adept with her weapons, and speaks well of her island, and does not seem to mind my company. Many happy marriages have been made on less.”</p>
<p>“And many an unhappy one.”</p>
<p>Albin nodded. “And you?”</p>
<p>“What of me?”</p>
<p>“Why have you come?”</p>
<p>“Entertainment,” he said with a cutting smile. “There are not half a dozen men in Westeros fit to lick her boots, and none of them are here.”</p>
<p>Albin nodded, knowingly, and for a moment Jaime wondered if Brienne would mind if he gutted the man. “Hmm. Is that all?”</p>
<p>“That is all.”</p>
<p>“The sword she carries…”</p>
<p>Jaime arched an eyebrow. “What of it?”</p>
<p>He knew, of course, but let the man say it. </p>
<p>“It has a distinctly Lannister hilt.”</p>
<p>“It was a gift.”</p>
<p>“Indeed. It is a very <em>remarkable </em>gift.”</p>
<p>“And as you said, Ser Brienne is a remarkable woman.” </p>
<p>Jaime knew that he could… lie, or perhaps tell something closer to the truth than he had previously allowed, and it might be enough to deter the other man’s suit. <em>It was meant as a betrothal gift</em>, would work, or <em>a reminder across time and distance and our obligations</em>, presented with a sharp-edged smile, the promise implicit. But he knew as well that it would not change <em>their</em> situation, and to scare away one man would only make the others stronger. He sighed.</p>
<p>“Brienne and I had a shared oath, and I could not fulfill it. I’m sure she would be happy to tell you the specifics. But I knew that if I could not assist her, then I could at least prepare her well. A sword, armour. A horse, though I heard the squire I sent with her ensured they lost <em>those</em> quickly enough. It is nothing more. No obligation remains, if ever there was one.”</p>
<p>“Ahh.”</p>
<p>     “You seem very fond of that sound,” Jaime remarked. </p>
<p>    “I am simply trying to understand. You have come a long way for entertainment.”</p>
<p>    Jaime’s hand tensed. “Tarth is beautiful, and I thought to spend time with a friend before she is turned to producing a bevy of squalling, shitting babes. Hopefully they all have her eyes.”</p>
<p>    Too late, the path widened once more—in hindsight, it was probably why Brienne had ridden ahead, to spare herself talking to that Dornish twat with no route to escape—and Jaime nodded to Albin and rode forward.</p>
<p>    “Ser Brienne!” he called, and she turned with a look of near-exasperation but halted her horse.</p>
<p>“Yes, Ser Jaime?” she asked when he drew near.</p>
<p>“I have changed my mind, and will return to Evenfall. Could I ask you to ensure a letter is sent?”</p>
<p>Her brow furrowed. “Of course. Are you unwell?”</p>
<p>If he had to have one more conversation with anyone in the current company, Brienne aside, he’d throw himself over the nearest cliff, but he doubted that was what she meant.</p>
<p>“Perfectly well. I simply recalled I had… obligations at Evenfall that I should attend to now.”  He reached into the breast of his tunic and pulled out the letter</p>
<p>Brienne took the letter, and inclined her head. “Very well. I hope I will see you at dinner then.”</p>
<p>He bowed deep in his saddle, enough for her to know it for the mockery it was, and tried not to laugh at her irritated expression. “I look forward to it, my lady.”</p>
<p>
  <strong>***</strong>
</p>
<p>    Brienne was grateful that Jaime had chosen to turn back to Evenfall, even if she did not know his reasons. It was much simpler to speak with the other suitors when her attention was not drawn to where Jaime was, what he was doing, an awareness that was equal part comfort and defense. Still…</p>
<p>    “I hope you did not frighten Ser Jaime away in defense of my honour,” she quietly said to Addam as the travellers arrived at the village inn. She meant for it to be teasing, but there was a sharpness to it that was impossible to ignore.</p>
<p>Addam merely shook his head as he dismounted his horse, landing beside her with ease. “I believe he is… still coming to understand the depths of what had transpired when he was away.” <em>When he was away</em>. How neat that sounded, a minor inconvenience and not…. “You were right though, to ask me to speak with him. I… It was not what I presumed.”</p>
<p>    Relief seemed an odd word for the sensation that hit her, but she was… gladdened, perhaps. Whatever Tyrion’s motivations, his actions had been cruel and the consequences vast. She would not have it cost Jaime a friendship as well.</p>
<p>    “I am pleased to hear that,” she said, and then on impulse added, “Do you know Lord Tyrion?”</p>
<p>    “A little. Our paths have not crossed often in recent years.” He looked around, then tilted his head toward the stables. “Come, the ostler is busy with the other horses.”</p>
<p>    He was, so Brienne guided her mare into the stables, pausing a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. The smell of hay and horse was soothing, and she quickly untacked her mount while Addam did the same. Then they hauled their saddles towards the tack room, and when they were inside Addam shut the door and leaned against it, arms crossed.</p>
<p>    “Tyrion— Jaime did not tell me what he said, only that he lied." Addam lifted his eyes towards the roof, jaw tight. “That was explanation enough. He was a clever child, once, but more his father’s son than Jaime ever managed to be. Certain of his own cunning. Ruthless. Nothing I have heard in these past years has convinced me he ever learnt from it.”</p>
<p>“No,” Brienne agreed.</p>
<p>“But Jaime always blamed himself for not protecting him, and for not protecting…”</p>
<p>“Cersei,” she finished. Saying her name did not summon her spectre, did not raise old feelings. Perhaps it ought to, but Brienne could not bring herself to care.</p>
<p>Addam nodded. “I know what was said about the two of them. I do not know that it is true. But Jaime… To be a Lannister is to place family above duty, above honour, above your own desires if it came to it. I love him as I would a brother. But I did not <em>need </em>him the way his siblings did, or said they did, and so…" He gave a tight smile. "You learnt quickly that his friendship would be scorched to the earth for his family, if the need arose. I… expected this to hold true.”  </p>
<p>Brienne shook her head. “He defied his father to send me after Sansa Stark. Allowed me to treat with the Blackfish even as he laid siege, and ended it without bloodshed.  His devotion was not boundless."</p>
<p>Addam pressed his lips together. "That is not my— Jaime was surprised that Tyrion had lied to him, caused him pain. I was only surprised that he saw it. I am <em>glad </em>of it, if not glad of the grief it raised. But I do not—" He paused, tilted his head slightly as he looked at Brienne. "You knew this already."</p>
<p>"Enough."</p>
<p>He gave a wry smile. "I talk too much."</p>
<p>"A little," Brienne laughed, a small, light sound that surprised her. "But I appreciate it all the same."</p>
<p>Addam nodded. "And you’re...?"</p>
<p>    “I’m well,” she lied, forcing a smile. “Now come, the others will have their ale by now.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter Nine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I know I say this often and mean it every time, but there likely won't be an update next Thursday. I am behind where I like to be in terms of finished chapters, and I will likely be busy with the opening of registration for the <a href="https://jaime-brienne-fic-exchange.tumblr.com/post/648753320295530496/2021-jaime-x-brienne-fic-exchange">Jaime x Brienne Fic Exchange 2021</a>.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brienne saw the men onto their ship with very little of interest occurring. The two Myles were joined to the last, sullen but not angry as they said their farewells. Theo Lychester surprised her; when it came their time to part, he swept into a low bow and pressed a kiss to her hand. </p>
<p>    “I will not forget this, ser,” he said, with all the earnestness his youth could conjure. “I will sing your praises throughout the Riverlands.”</p>
<p>    “That is not necessary,” she said, feeling herself blush.</p>
<p>“It is. I shall name our first daughter after you.”</p>
<p>“Really—”</p>
<p>“I <em>shall</em>.” The boy practically <em>shone</em> with happiness, misplaced though it might have been. </p>
<p>“I am only sending you home. I cannot guarantee a match with your love, or that Lord Edmure will support—”</p>
<p>“I am certain of it, ser. My uncle cannot oppose the marriage now, not when a personal friend of our King has encouraged it.”</p>
<p>“You overstate my influence,” Brienne said, grateful that at least the boy kept his voice low enough that only a small circle of people around them would overhear. “But I do hope that love prevails.”</p>
<p>It ought to for some, at least. Lord Theo kissed her knuckles once more and bounded up the gangplank, and Brienne paid the captain a gold dragon to ensure he saw to the dispatch of Jaime’s letter to Casterly Rock personally. He was a man of Tarth, taciturn and reliable; they could not hide Jaime’s return, but the less attention drawn to it, the happier she would be.</p>
<p> Once the men were boarded, Brienne met the remaining suitors at the inn. Addam and Albin were deep in a discussion, and so it was that she found herself riding alongside Pearse Toyne. He was a broad man, dark haired and dark eyed, with a scar that ran the length of his jaw she did not recall from their earlier passing acquaintance, and so quiet as to be forgettable.</p>
<p>“Tell me,” Brienne said, looking for anything to say. “Have you been to Tarth before?”</p>
<p>“Once.”</p>
<p>Brienne cast her mind back, wondering if she had been on the island then, unsettled to realise that the ball of her youth, her great shame, had faded so much she could not remember any guest save Renly. The humiliation still stung, and likely always would, but the faces blurred and meant little to her. </p>
<p>“And Evenfall? Do you find it much changed?”</p>
<p>Pearse shook his head. “I cannot say. I came to visit a distant uncle of my mother’s, on the east side of the island. Ser Bertram?”</p>
<p>“Ah, yes, I do remember him,” Brienne said, choosing not to add that he’d been a foul-mouthed fool who’d nearly run his small holding into ruin; it was only his sudden death that had saved the property from falling into a state of disrepair that could not be easily fixed.</p>
<p>“I stayed little more than a moon,” Pearse said, “but the scenery was quite beautiful there.”</p>
<p>“Tarth is a beautiful island. I hope the weather holds, so we may explore more of it on the morrow.” </p>
<p>“I shall hope so,” Pearse agreed. </p>
<p>And so it went. It was a pathetic attempt at conversation, filled with long pauses and stilted questions;. it was not that Pearse was a <em>bad</em> man—she did not know him well enough to say—but simply that she would rather have easy conversation or none at all instead of these half-measures of necessity. Still, it was likely a situation she would grow accustomed to, a future of marital conversations filled with island matters and discussions of the weather and <em>please come to my chambers tonight</em> until an heir was born stretched before her. Brienne was only thankful she had sent the carriage back to Evenfall Hall so it was sensible to take the shorter path, and she was relieved of her misery faster than she might have been.</p>
<p>Upon arriving at the castle, the group parted to dress for dinner. Brienne was unsurprised to find Roelle waiting for her, though that the woman had bothered waiting <em>outside</em> her chambers was a pleasant development.</p>
<p>Brienne bit back a sigh. “Septa.”</p>
<p>“Your father sent me,” Roelle said. “To ensure you come in a dress, and abandon that nonsensical dagger.”</p>
<p>She doubted her father had mentioned the weapon at all, far preferring disapproving looks and pointed sighs.</p>
<p>“It is the dagger or the sword,” Brienne said, pushing the door to her room open. “Any man that does not care for it is welcome to leave.”</p>
<p>Roelle followed her into the room, and headed towards Brienne’s wardrobe. </p>
<p>“Wash up,” she commanded. “You need a lady’s maid.”</p>
<p>“I am fine without one.”</p>
<p>The chambermaids cared for her quarters and ensured her laundry was done; Brienne did not need more.</p>
<p>“It makes Tarth seem poor,” Roelle said, rummaging through the gowns hung in the wardrobe. “It will not help your courting attempts. There we are.”</p>
<p>She had pulled a gown from the wardrobe, this one in house colours. It had been the only one Brienne had not had a say on, its existence presented as an inevitability. The ugliest of the gowns, she had considered keeping it for her wedding for entertainment, but Roelle shoved it into her hands. Perhaps she could stain it so badly at dinner that it would be unusable for more than scraps; wasteful as it was, it would not be the first time she had done so. Taking it, Brienne moved towards her dressing table.</p>
<p>“I am glad to see you sent those men away,” Roelle said from behind her, the words clearly a grudging concession as she attempted to continue the conversation. “Though I was surprised you did not include the Kingsl—”</p>
<p>    “Ser Jaime is a guest,” Brienne said tersely, picking up a tin of beeswax to tame her hair before dressing. </p>
<p>    “<em>Ser Jaime</em>,” Roelle amended, making it sound more of a curse than Kingslayer had ever been. “He is not the worst of your suitors.”</p>
<p>    The tin fell from Brienne’s fingers. “That—”</p>
<p>    Roelle tutted. “For someone who is so adept with weapons, you’re remarkably clumsy.”</p>
<p>    “You suggested that I wed Ser Jaime.”</p>
<p>    “No. I merely said that of your suitors, he is not the worst. Not the best—if you desisted in fighting, the Prince Albin or Lord Beesbury are respectable matches, as is that Westerlands man who seems fond enough of you, but you seem determined to drive them away with steel. Of course, even if you comported yourself appropriately they’d be mad to wed you with the small dowry your father offers, so perhaps that is a mercy.”</p>
<p>    “There is no dowry,” Brienne said. “And I negotiate the terms of my marriage, not my father.”</p>
<p>Roelle pressed her lips together, the corners of her mouth turning white. “Be that as it may, they are in need of a <em>wife</em>, not a brother in arms.”</p>
<p>“And the others?”</p>
<p>“Ser Jaime is handsome, rich, and powerful. He gains no advantage by wedding you, and has decent enough manners, arrogant though he may be. Pearse Toyne looks to redeem his family’s poor reputation and will cling like a limpet if that is what is required. The Iron Islander won’t do you a bit of good if he keeps speaking as if Tarth had never seen a ship before his arrival, and Ser Simon cannot seem to string together more than two words so I cannot imagine how he’d fare at marital duties.”</p>
<p>“Septa,” Brienne said, but the woman did not heed her warning.</p>
<p>“Ser Jaime is the best you are likely to have—he’ll wed you for pity, or some loyalty forged by war, but he will have no expectations. With any luck he’ll get a babe on you quick and spend most of his time in King’s Landing with that brother of his.”</p>
<p>Brienne very nearly laughed. “Get out.”</p>
<p>“Child—”</p>
<p>“Is that the best you can imagine for me? A husband who does his duty—in the dark, I presume, because neither of us would wish to be there—and then disappears to the city for moons at a time?”</p>
<p>“It is better than one who is always home and demands your compliance,” Roelle snapped. “A few sound beatings and you will see. There are not enough whores on Tarth to appease a man’s hunger.”</p>
<p>“Get out,” Brienne repeated flatly.</p>
<p>Roelle had the audacity to appear offended. “It is my duty to—”</p>
<p>“Get out!” Brienne rose from her seat. “Whatever reasons my father has allowed you to remain on Tarth, you owe no duty to me, and I would not accept if you did. Leave. Now.”</p>
<p>Roelle drew herself to her full height, like some angered cat, and tutted once more. “The dinner bell will ring soon,” she said, turning on her heel. “Ensure you are dressed appropriately.” </p>
<p>  The door had barely shut behind her when Brienne sunk back into her chair, her legs trembling and Roelle’s words echoing in her ears.  It was a bleak view of marriage, so in contrast to her father's feelings that it seemed impossible both could be true. Neither had ever been a wife, of course, and perhaps that was difference enough. Perhaps this was entirely unknown, a journey with no map, only secret directions whispered from mother to daughter, between sisters. </p>
<p>What wives did she know? Widows who had taken power or faded into obscurity, or women at court who she had barely seen because their world was not hers. Servants and smallfolk who worked until their fingers bled not because they believed in the work they did but because there were mouths to feed. It was not all bleak; she knew Lady Catelyn had loved Ned Stark and mourned his death, and there were certainly children and laughter enough amongst the smallfolk she had known. And yet… </p>
<p>She could not see what a marriage would be for <em>her</em>: Ser Brienne of Tarth, Evenstar, Warden, and yet still a woman. Still with a woman’s duties, with a woman’s disadvantages. Even as lord commander, celibate and unwed, it had lingered, tainted her time on the small council. What good would it be for her to bear the titles, if it was her husband to whom other men deferred? She must shut him out entirely or lose her independence in all but name, and how miserable would that be, to live forever as strangers? To only ever be courteous and sweet? And yet was that not better than <em>this is my lord husband</em>, knowing that every time it would slice away another piece of her until she was only a pale echo of what she had once been?</p>
<p>Her fingers picked at the stitching of the gown laid over the arm of her chair, the azure and rose swimming before her eyes. It was an ugly thing, a proclamation of her House, a reminder of her duties, gaudy enough that her suitors might forget the woman behind it. She stood and picked up her belt, securing her dagger at her waist before heading down to eat. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>    Jaime was in the courtyard and mounted by the time Brienne arrived the next morning, and she looked at him in surprise.</p>
<p>    “You’re early.”</p>
<p>    “Wanted to get the good horse,” he said, patting the neck of the grey gelding she’d suggested on their previous ride.</p>
<p>    “That’s Starlight,” she said with a touch of fondness, coming nearer to stroke his nuzzle. “He’s a stubborn beast, but he knows the terrain well. I wouldn’t trust him to anyone else.”</p>
<p>    Before he could respond, Ralf Harlaw joined them and Brienne stepped away, a consummate host as she greeted each man as they arrived. Jaime watched her move between them, stopping to answer questions with a reserved confidence, the only hint of underlying unease the way she gripped the hilt of Oathkeeper from time to time, her hand curling and releasing in a slow rhythm. The sword was still in the same plain scabbard it had been the day before, unbefitting of either the sword or the woman who wielded it; he would ask her about it, when the chance arose. Eventually all the guests were present and mounted, and they set out as they had the day before. Without the need for a carriage, they took the shorter path down towards the port village and it gave a stunning view of the bay, clear blue in the sunshine.</p>
<p>    “A view sweet enough to make up for any sourness found in Evenfall Hall,” remarked someone beside Jaime, and he turned to see Hugh Beesbury squinting at the horizon like some gormless idiot. </p>
<p>    “I understand you must dress like a bee,” Jaime sneered, gesturing towards the man’s black and yellow ensemble and realising too late it was with his stump, “but is it necessary you buzz about like one?”</p>
<p>    “And you’re a lion without teeth.”</p>
<p>    “Come closer and see if I bite.”</p>
<p>    He was just reaching for his sword when—</p>
<p>“Jaime!” </p>
<p>    It was Addam, riding close in what was the least subtle attempt to rein in Jaime’s worst impulses to date. Jaime flashed him a sharp smile.</p>
<p>“Lord Beesbury and I were just discussing the view,” Jaime said. “He seems to find Evenfall lacking.”</p>
<p>“Unfortunate,” Addam said dryly. “<em>Prince Albin and I</em> were just discussing a tourney in Gulltown, you know the one, and neither of us can recall who won the lists that day. You were there, come, join us.”</p>
<p>Jaime was not particularly inclined to let Beesbury’s pompous declarations slide; to think it was one thing, every man was entitled to their willful blindness, but the <em>audacity</em> to presume that Jaime would agree…. Admittedly, it would be much more difficult to court Brienne if he killed a man in front of her.  </p>
<p>“Enjoy the view, Lord Beesbury,” he said, inclining his head with as much mockery as he could muster before turning his horse to join Addam. </p>
<p>    His cousin gave him an unamused glare, but pulled him into a conversation—he and the Dornishman really were discussing the tourney, fifteen years gone and most of the participants too, and they passed the ride through the port village and onto the road that would lead them north reminiscing about bygone glories with only the slightest hint of irony.</p>
<p>    The weather was beautiful, hot and bright; incongruous with the image of storm season, Brienne explained, but actually as much a part of it as the high winds and lashing rain. </p>
<p>“It will be nice for a fortnight, if we’re fortunate,” she said, eyeing the sky. “And hot enough to dry the land if it lasts too long.” </p>
<p>    “It will be good for a hunt,” said the man nearest her. Pearse? A dull man of no consequence, in Jaime’s estimation, though Brienne answered him politely enough.</p>
<p>    Once they’d passed through the port village, the road widened and the riders began to move forward and back, speaking for a few minutes before parting. Brienne moved between them with deliberation, sparing time for each suitor, and Jaime watched her listen and speak and grow more weary with every false praise from men who did not know her at all. Beesbury had forgotten all of Evenfall’s sour landscapes as he plied her with sweet words, and Pearse Toyne made japes, and Albin Martell would not cease his comments of her prowess on the battlefield that could not begin to express her true power and yet rang false when he had not seen it. Jaime tried to study the island—the lush greenery, the small farms along the road, the mountains on one horizon and the sea on the other—but found himself drawn back to Brienne time and time again.</p>
<p>    Eventually, she came to ride alongside him, but other than a quiet <em>Ser Jaime</em> she did not speak. There was a tightness around her eyes, an exhaustion about the set of her shoulders, and so he remained quiet, a respite from the conversations she had held and would hold. Silent companionship had not been unknown in Winterfell, especially on nights when he had arrived at her chambers before her; she would remove her armour, tend to it, eat a small meal before the fire, and nothing needed to be said. After a few moments, the exhaustion would fall away and they would speak or spar or fall into bed, and he’d grown accustomed to the quiet rhythm, the lack of demands found in it. </p>
<p>    It only took a few moments for the furrow in her brow to smooth, for the tightness to melt away, but he knew they would return soon enough. Still, he could do more. </p>
<p>    “You know what a journey needs?” he asked, leaning over in his saddle as if he were sharing some great secret. “Singing. How do you like <em>Six Maids In A Pool</em>, ser?”</p>
<p>    “Jaime...” she warned, the corners of her lips twitching twice.</p>
<p>    “No? Oh, I know this new one, sing along if you know the words. <em>There was once a knight of blue, whose heart and</em>—”</p>
<p>“Jaime!” </p>
<p>Her cheeks had gone a shade of pink that could not be explained away by the wind, and he laughed. </p>
<p>    “Very well. <em>Brave Dany Flint</em>?”</p>
<p>    Her nose scrunched. “No.”</p>
<p>    “No, far too dreary. How about—”</p>
<p>    “<em>The Bowman’s Hart</em> is quite good.”</p>
<p>    Jaime turned in his saddle to see one of the Reach’s men—Simon Graceford, that was it—had ridden up behind them. He was looking down at his reins, twisting them in his hand, and while Jaime was tempted to send him scurrying away, Brienne was kinder.</p>
<p>    “I’m afraid I don’t know that one,” she said.</p>
<p>    “It’s from the Reach. I’m sure Lord Hugh knows it as well,” Simon said eagerly. “It’s very good for riding.”</p>
<p>    “Well, go on then,” she said warmly. “Teach us.”</p>
<p>    The poor man coughed, his voice quiet and reedy as he began the first verse. Brienne seemed to be listening intently, but she looked towards Jaime. <em>Thank you</em>, she mouthed, her eyes brightened, and Jaime smiled back.</p>
<p>    “Louder!” he called to Simon, who nearly choked on his tongue before he complied, and soon enough most of the men were singing along.</p>
<p>
  <strong>***</strong>
</p>
<p>    The village to the north—Jaime had asked why it seemed to have no name, and Brienne had shrugged and said that it had always <em>been</em> the market village, even once it had grown large enough to be called a town, and there had never seemed need of something more official—was on a larger bay than the port village by Evenfall, and Jaime recognised ships from many places at its docks.</p>
<p>    “Merchants prefer to land here first,” Brienne explained, “unless they carry cargo for Evenfall Hall.”</p>
<p>The number of merchants selling from stalls that lined the enormous market square and the winding streets that stretched off from it made that clear; everything from fine silks and perfumes to freshly caught fish were on offer, and when Pearse expressed his surprise at the abundance, Brienne shrugged.</p>
<p>“The ships will go to the mainland, or continue on to Essos in a day or two. Tarth is a respite on the journey, and if it lessens their cargo slightly or they find more to bring with them, it is only to their advantage. Now, please, explore. I have some island matters to attend to, but I will join you at the belltower” —she gestured to one much like the tower at Evenfall— “at midday and we can take some luncheon at the inn.”</p>
<p>    She bowed in farewell, and the men quickly parted ways. Jaime spent one of his few coins to have his horse stabled for the day, then began to wander the market. There was a rhythm to the cacophony, a liveliness that could not fail to lift his spirits—the day was hot and the chatter washed over him, and he turned his face up towards the sun for a long moment, until a man jostled him from behind and broke his reverie. </p>
<p>    He made his way through the market. Some of the stalls were clearly established and run by islanders—freshly baked goods, seasonal fruits, and freshly caught fish were in demand from sailors, and items that might need to be replaced or repaired on a long journey were all on offer, as well as the more basic goods found in markets across Westeros. Other stalls were more makeshift, a handful of crates with the lids cracked open to display the wares. </p>
<p>Eventually he found himself far enough from the main square that there were more shops and fewer stalls, and a warren of alleys that drew him in. The belltower could still be seen and the sun overhead told him he had a little time left before he must return so he continued on. </p>
<p>Down one particularly narrow alley was a leatherworker, the wares in the dusty window entirely nondescript, and Jaime did not know what impulse had him ducking inside. The scent hit him first, familiar and slightly bitter in the way that lingered on the back of the tongue, and when his eyes adjusted to the dim light he was able to see the shopkeeper behind a long table, head bent over some project. He looked up at Jaime’s entrance, setting aside his awl.</p>
<p>“Good morn,” he said, rising. He was tall, in the way half of Tarth seemed to be tall, with a shock of white hair.  “I’m Brus. May I help you?”</p>
<p>“No,” said Jaime, remembering the few coppers he had. “No, I simply… wished to look.”</p>
<p>“Please,” Brus said, lifting his hands to gesture around the narrow shop.</p>
<p>Due to the transient nature of the village, Brus had much already made—bags and purses for travellers, replacement parts for tools, bridles and harnesses. There was a much smaller selection of fine goods: calfskin gloves, delicately tooled belts, even a leatherbound book with blank pages, the cover so intricate Jaime ran his fingers across it in disbelief.</p>
<p>“You do handsome work,” he said.</p>
<p>“Aye, and ask handsome prices.”</p>
<p>Jaime pulled his hand away, and smiled through the pathetic sting in his chest. All those months in Essos, he had not grown accustomed to limited funds, never truly believed that this might last longer than the next ship at the docks carrying the message it was safe to return home. Never thought Tyrion—</p>
<p>”If I have need of leather goods while I am here, I will be sure to return,” he said. “But I must be off before I am late. Good day.”</p>
<p>Heading back out of the shop, he blinked in the sunlight for a moment before working his way back towards the town square. He passed a smithy on one of the roads, the blacksmith a silhouette at the bellows, and recalled Brienne mentioning the woman. He had no need for a false hand and no coins if he did. He walked a little faster until the clang of hammer against anvil could not be heard. </p>
<p>He soon found his way back in the marketplace. Simon was speaking to Brienne when Jaime arrived at the belltower, asking her about a particular type of apple he’d seen at one of the stalls, and Jaime wondered whether any amount of political advantage would be worth Brienne dying of boredom before she’d left the sept. He had the foresight not to <em>say</em> so, though the disapproving look she sent him suggested that she’d heard him all the same. So serious. </p>
<p>“Sers,” he greeted them both. “I trust your village business was concluded, Ser Brienne?”</p>
<p>“Yes, it was not complex. A tax matter, easily reconciled.”</p>
<p>“I am pleased to hear it,” Jaime said, turning slightly so he was shoulder to shoulder with Brienne. “And you, Ser Simon? Did you enjoy the village?”</p>
<p>“Indeed! There was a—”</p>
<p>Jaime raised a hand. “I heard.” He flipped him a copper, a price worth paying even as he winced internally. “Why don’t you buy another? I’m terribly curious to taste it now.”</p>
<p>Rather than take offense, Simon nodded and bounced off, and Brienne folded her arms across her chest.</p>
<p>“Jaime.”</p>
<p>“Brienne.”</p>
<p>“You shouldn’t….”</p>
<p>“You were bored.”</p>
<p>She flinched. “I— That is not the <em>point</em>, Jaime. He is enthused by Tarth, that is…”</p>
<p>“<em>Enthused by Tarth.</em> Is that the best you can hope for?”</p>
<p>“Don’t.” It was a warning.</p>
<p>“Brienne, he could fill a book with all he knows about harvests and not a page about how to tell when your audience was lost. A terrible lack in a lord—”</p>
<p>“My husband will not rule Tarth,” Brienne snapped. “Could you not just…” She exhaled sharply. “Ser Simon is aware of his deficiencies, but so far he seems a kind man with an aptitude for agriculture that eclipses mine. And even if he were not, <i>you</i> are well aware that is not the main concern.”</p>
<p>He knew. He did not have to approve. “You barely know these men, Brienne.”</p>
<p>“I’m aware. That is why I will be spending time with each of them in these next weeks.”</p>
<p>“Each of <em>them</em>.”</p>
<p>“Each <em>suitor</em>. As I presume you have not withdrawn your own offer, you will be among them. Father has arranged another large feast in ten days’ time. I believe he hopes I will have made my choice by then.”</p>
<p>“Ten days?” His letter would have barely arrived at Casterly Rock by then, nevermind…</p>
<p>“Yes. I won’t—” Brienne reached for her sword, released it. “If I can… Shortly after that I am to head to the mountains for island matters and I will ask all who remain to join me. It will be a good test of leadership, and we will be gone perhaps a fortnight. It will be simple enough to convince my father of this, but I do not know…” She breathed deeply, meeting his eyes. “I must choose, Jaime, and I cannot ask these men to stay on Tarth forever in the hopes that if I delay long enough— I must <em>choose</em>. Please do not… You cannot mock the man I pick, however dull you believe he may be. I think I could bear that least of all.”</p>
<p>If anyone had caused her to speak with such pain within his hearing, Jaime would have happily gutted them and smiled while he’d done so. But it was his own actions, his circumstances, and so all he could offer was a nod.</p>
<p>“Of course, ser.” Over her shoulder, he saw one of the suitors approaching. “And here we have a perfect opportunity to demonstrate that I am a man of my word. Pearse Toyne, a man so dull he makes rocks appear interesting.”</p>
<p>The corners of her lips twitched once. “Jaime, I’m serious.”</p>
<p>“So am I. There was a particularly riveting boulder on the way here...”</p>
<p>She shook her head, but did not reprimand him again. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter Ten</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    Determined to do her duty regardless of Jaime’s feelings on the matter, and all too painfully aware of what they were, Brienne spent most of the return ride to Evenfall Hall considering her options. She <em>must</em> get to know the men better, and consider their offers in light not just of the initial alliance but in the longer term. Whatever man she chose would be her companion for many years to come, in all likelihood, and a thousand pikemen or a few acres of grain more in the Crown’s stores would mean little if they did not promise something more; she may not have her father's optimism for an alliance of true minds, but she would not allow Roelle’s predictions to be all she could hope for. Winter would come again, as would war, and she must be prepared.</p><p>    It was after dark when they reached the castle, and Brienne stopped the men in the courtyard after they had dismounted.</p><p>    “Thank you, all, for joining me today,” she said, looking at each of them. “I wish to know you all better, and so in the days to come I will spend an afternoon with each of you in turn.” </p><p>    Jaime grimaced and opened his mouth, and just as quickly closed it, his promise to her more valued than whatever objection he still held. Brienne gave him a grateful smile, small and fleeting.</p><p>    “An opportunity to court you properly?” Hugh Beesbury interrupted. “It would be most welcomed.”</p><p>    It was a pretty term, a pretty thought, and nothing like she felt on this matter. Courting should be tender and longing and sweet, with bright skies and beautiful maidens and no considerations beyond the hearts of those involved. It was not the realms of Highborn women. </p><p>    “Yes,” she said curtly. “Prince Albin, you arrived on Tarth first. Please be prepared tomorrow afternoon. We will then move right to left” —she gestured to the men where they stood in a semicircle, and that it placed Jaime as a reprieve in the middle of her days, and Ser Addam at the end was not entirely coincidental— “until the day of the hunt and grand feast my father has prepared in the hopes a suitor will be named.” </p><p>She had no such wishes, and once she had said her farewells to the guests, she sought out her father, proposed her plan to ask the men to escort her on her journey into the mountains, to judge their leadership; her father sighed heavily but conceded, which was more than she had dared to hope.</p><p>And so Brienne found herself settling into a routine over the next few days: she broke her fast in her quarters, then spent the morning attending to whichever duties her father had entrusted her with. The grain for the mountain folk would be transported from the caves to the village, where it would be kept until it was time to depart, and she must also ensure transportation and routes were accounted for. It was a time-consuming task, but not her only one. Spare moments were spent with the household guard, or running the castle, or any number of small obligations that arose. </p><p>One day, Brienne was asked to journey to nearby settlements to settle minor disputes and speak with the people, to get a sense of any unrest before it became a true problem. She heard of stolen livestock or property damage, someone dissatisfied with new fees at the mainland docks. When she’d been a child it had been her father’s favourite part of being the Evenstar, riding out in his finest travelling cloak and returning with stories or gifts to entertain Brienne; she did not have his same natural ease, but the people still spoke with her, enquired after her father’s health—he had not ridden amongst the smallfolk in close to two years, she was told, and suddenly Bran’s words: <em>a year left, perhaps a little more</em> felt truer than ever, but she could not dwell on that now, could not borrow grief from the future when there was much to be done now. </p><p>It was not the same as being Lord Commander, but it was not entirely dissimilar either, and she was content enough with her duties. It was good work, <em>worthy</em>, and when she arrived in the hall for the midday meal, it was always with a sense of accomplishment, a grim satisfaction in a job well done.  </p><p>The afternoons, however, were less pleasurable. The men would fawn over her as she attempted to eat, as if she might change her mind if they praised her sufficiently. Even Jaime would participate, though his compliments were laced with hidden sharp edges and amusements meant only for her, and always carried the knowledge that he would not give false praise, had no patience for the concept. </p><p>Prince Albin had been a good choice to begin with, at least—on the first day, he waited until she was done her meal before suggesting that they head to the training yards, promising to help her with her spearwork if she would assist him with his use of a morningstar; it was the sort of grounds on which she was used to meeting men, and so she readily agreed. It was only an hour later, when they were both sweating and exhausted and taking a rest in the shade of the armory that she realised his suggestion had not been entirely altruistic; it was hard not to feel some camaraderie after fighting together, and the conversation flowed easily—he spoke of his childhood, his home in Dorne, his many siblings and cousins, and Brienne offered a few stories of her own. Nothing deeply personal, she could not bear that yet, but she told him of her own fondness for swimming, how she had left Tarth to serve King Renly, how she had met Catelyn Stark. Nothing unknown, she suspected, but still she <em>offered</em> it. And when the conversation faltered, Albin rose to his feet, held out his hand.</p><p>    “Again, ser?”</p><p>    Again and again, for hours. She learnt he was an open man who laughed easily, that he had an easygoing nature and a keen mind that he was happy to turn to matters of warfare or administration equally. He praised the library at Evenfall, praised the beauty of the castle, seemed truly dedicated to learning the morningstar. If his smile was too easy to win, that was not his fault; it was a good smile, bright and open, and she tried to imagine kissing it. It was not an entirely unpleasant thought, or would not have been if it had not reminded her of Jaime, of how they’d perfected the slant of his mouth against her. But that could not be….</p><p>“Have you enjoyed Tarth?” she asked, then motioned quickly. “You’re curving your shoulder, you’ll injure yourself before your opponent. Up.”</p><p>Albin complied. “Yes, it’s a lovely island. Peaceful.”</p><p>“You’ve never been around when the cattle come down from the mountains,” Brienne said.  “The sheep and goats stay up year-round, but there’s a herd that goes up and down twice a year except in the winter, and they cause a commotion every time.”</p><p>“Perhaps I will see them soon,” he said, still smiling. Then he shifted his weight, prepared to strike. “Ready?”</p><p><em>No</em>, she almost said, but raised her shield instead. She would not be deterred from her duties, but she took her dinner in her quarters that night. <em>I have some matters to go over</em>, she said, her face hot at the lie, <em>please, enjoy your meal</em>. </p><p>    The second afternoon was spent with Ralf Harlaw, and whatever crude honesty she’d once seen in him had been replaced by a churlish politeness as he suggested a ride down to the sea. The weather was hot, the sky free of even the smallest clouds, and he had not thought to bring his own waterskin and so begged use of Brienne’s not long after they had left the castle. </p><p>    “Thank you kindly,” he said, raising the waterskin towards her and drinking deeply before attempting to hand it back.</p><p>    “Please, keep it,” she said, as if the thought gave her pleasure, “I have a second.”</p><p>    They arrived at the water, and once their horses were hitched, Brienne sat upon a large rock to unlace her boots, then rolled her breeches to her knees.</p><p>    “The water will be cold,” Ralf said. “Even in this heat.”</p><p>    “Yes, I thought that was rather the point,” Brienne said. “I did grow up on these shores, you know.”</p><p>    “Yes, of course,” Ralf said, frowning. Brienne wondered whether she could claim an undertow had taken him and return to Evenfall alone; likely not, but the temptation was there. “I took my first ship out on waters like these.”</p><p> She gave a low hum, which he took as interest in his nautical experience and began regaling her with stories that seemed unlikely at best; he followed her into the water, still bragging of his skill on the water, his family’s power, the advantage of an Ironborn alliance.</p><p>“Tarth and House Harlaw have a long connection, you know,” he said, as Brienne studiously observed a fishing boat far out on the water. “It is said that the Evenstar had triplet daughters, back in the time of Aegon the Conqueror.”</p><p>“Yes, I have read the histories.”</p><p>“Then you know the eldest girl wed a Harlaw.”</p><p>“Does that make us cousins? I should so dearly like a cousin,” Brienne asked, far too innocently. Jaime would know it a jape, but Ralf only spluttered. </p><p>“It was many years ago, of course,” he said hurriedly, “not enough to be a real relation. But I like to think there is a connection all the same. A commonality between islanders. None of that mainlander softness.”</p><p>Brienne sighed. “Perhaps. Please, tell me more of your fleet.” </p><p>He was only too happy to oblige, and carried the conversation until the sun sunk low against the water and she could encourage their return to Evenfall before the evening meal. </p><p>After Ralf’s incessant blathering, Pearse Toyne’s quiet reluctance to speak the next afternoon was almost a respite, in the beginning. He suggested they walk amongst the castle gardens and so they did, though neither seemed to pay any mind to the flowers and bushes as Brienne asked him about his time on Tarth, his family, what friends he might have on the mainland. He kept his answers brief and uninformative, as if he had no real interest in the alliance and yet would not withdraw. Brienne grit her teeth and asked yet another question; this was her duty, and she would do it however much it bored her. </p><p>***</p><p>    It took longer than Jaime had anticipated for Selwyn Tarth to back him into a corner, quite literally, on one afternoon when Brienne was off… probably playing the simpering maiden and hating every moment, or plotting how best to die and make the boredom end. But no, <em>Brienne</em> would not do that—she had her duty and she would pour her entire self into it, would give every craven, undeserving man an opportunity to win her hand with promises of gold or power or things she had no use for and he could not offer, and he did not know whether he loved or hated it more. Still, she was nowhere to be seen when her father accosted him in a corridor of Evenfall, heartily laughing and slapping Jaime’s back as if they were dear friends. It was a display of joviality belied by the firmness of his grip as he steered Jaime towards the small nook that contained servants’ stairs, made all the worse for the way he rounded on Jaime, all teeth as he grinned at him.</p><p>    “Lord Lannister,” he said, and then, “You <em>are </em>Lord Lannister, are you not?”</p><p>    <em>I am a dead man,</em> Jaime thought, but said, “That is—”</p><p>    “No, that’s right, your brother the imp—”</p><p>    “His name is Tyrion,” Jaime said tersely, unable to refrain from defending his brother against the nickname. “Hand of the King and Lord of Casterly Rock, like our father. I’m sure the man would be proud.”</p><p>    Selwyn arched an eyebrow doubtfully. “That does not sound like the Tywin Lannister I knew— Oh, don’t look surprised, boy. I’ve not always been an ancient relic on a small island. I’ve spent my time in King’s Landing. Never did go back after Aerys—well, I had a daughter to raise without her mother, and my duties.”</p><p>    It was a deliberate comment, aimed to test Jaime’s defenses, find some weakness to aim an assault; Jaime had heard it from sharper men than Selwyn Tarth, and bared his teeth in a smile of his own.</p><p>“Ser Jaime is fine enough a title,” he said. “I did earn it.”</p><p>“Knighthood can be bought, just like anything else.”</p><p>“Well, I didn’t. And if you are in any way implying that <em>Brienne </em>did not earn hers—”</p><p>“Why would I think that?”</p><p><em>Rumours and half-truths</em>, Jaime thought, remembering Addam’s disapproval, but shrugged instead. “You would be surprised how many do.”</p><p>    Selwyn clicked his tongue. “Come,” he said. “Join me.”</p><p>    It was a short and silent walk, and when they reached the man’s study he gestured for Jaime to sit. </p><p>    “My daughter intended to send you away, and yet you remain here,” he said, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Explain.”</p><p>    “You would have to ask her.”</p><p>    “Because you don’t know?”</p><p>    “Because it was her choice and I won’t put words in her mouth.”</p><p>    Selwyn studied him for a long moment. “You speak pretty words, boy.” It was not a compliment.  </p><p>    “I also dance and sing a tune for coppers, if you catch me in the right mood.” </p><p>    Selwyn remained unmoved. “She doesn’t <em>trust </em>pretty words.”</p><p>    Jaime snorted. “She trusts mine.”</p><p>    “And why is that?”</p><p>    Stretching his legs out as far as they could go, Jaime met the other man’s gaze and sneered with as much insolence as he could muster. “You would have to ask her.”</p><p>    Selwyn gave a slow nod, then rounded his large desk to take his own seat. He looked Jaime over with an eye so like his daughter’s that Jaime almost pulled himself upright out of habit, but managed to refrain. </p><p>    “Very well,” he said, in an aggravatingly placid voice. “No questions I should ask Brienne. Why are you here?”</p><p>“I thought it quite obvious: to seek her hand.”</p><p>“Hmm. And yet you claim no lands or titles besides your knighthood, you have offered no dowry—”</p><p>“Not to you. Brienne knows what I offer.”</p><p>“And I suppose I must ask her what that is,” said Selwyn dryly. “The salient point, however, is that a man of your position is either too powerful to wed her for gain or too weak to bring anything for her advantage, so why would you wish to?”</p><p>“Do you believe even for a <em>moment </em>any of the men here will—” Jaime stopped, refused to rise to the bait, smirked instead. “What does it matter why? Have you asked that buzzing Beesbury why he is here, when he cannot cease his snide asides for more than an hour at a time? The nervous little one?”</p><p>Selwyn was silent. </p><p>“No, I thought not,” Jaime snapped. “You ask because I am the Kingslayer. The man who set bastards on the throne and— Brienne knows the truth of it all, and if she has not sent me away then I cannot imagine why you might.”</p><p>“I ask you and not the others because she does not love <em>them</em>,” Selwyn said, and Jaime flinched. “But you knew that already.”</p><p>Jaime said nothing, and Selwyn sighed. Rose from his seat, and headed towards one of the windows that overlooked the sea. For a moment, he seemed nothing more than a sad old man, his head bowed, his arm resting upon the grey stone wall.</p><p>“She has been betrothed before, you know.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“The first was a good match,” Selwyn said, his voice oddly earnest. “A boy close to her own age, of a good family, but a younger son who would not inherit and so would move to Tarth. I had half a hope he’d take the mantle of Evenstar, allow her the freedom she had craved as soon as she could walk. And then…”</p><p>He turned, looked at Jaime.</p><p>“He died,” Jaime finished. “Of a sickness, when they were both still children. She never met him.”</p><p>Selwyn nodded. “The second—”</p><p>“She doesn’t speak of it,” Jaime said, raising his hand. “I don’t wish to know.”</p><p>“Just know that I ought to have… I allowed the man to treat her cruelly, and I should not have. I swore not to hurt her again.”</p><p>Remembering Brienne’s description of her third betrothal, alone in their bed one night in Winterfell, the quiet, satisfied smile as she told him how she’d refused the man’s chastisement and broken his collarbone as she confessed the entire thing, Jaime could only say, “That you did not with Ser Humfrey says more of her determination than any upholding of your vow.”</p><p>“A fair judgment, perhaps. I only… I wanted what was best for her. And he was—he had been a kind man, when I knew him. Loyal, honest. A few years of kindness and then freedom. I believed… I was wrong.”</p><p>Jaime nodded, refrained from saying more. When the silence had stretched too long, Selwyn sighed, returned to his chair. </p><p> “I want your word,” he said, his hands spread across his desk, “that you are not here to hurt her.”</p><p>“What good is my word?”</p><p>“Brienne trusts it.” Selwyn firmed his jaw. “Is she wrong?”</p><p>“No,” Jaime said. “And no, I am not here to hurt her, or as a jape, or to press some strange political game upon her.” </p><p>“Very well.”</p><p>It was clearly meant as a dismissal, and Jaime rose from his chair and bowed. </p><p>“For all your questions and presumptions, Lord Selwyn, there is one you did not consider: Do I love her?” Selwyn said nothing, and so Jaime headed towards the door, hesitated when he reached it. “The answer is yes,” he said quietly. “Enough to leave if she wishes me to, and enough to stay until she asks.”</p><p>And having nothing else to say and no interest in a response, he left. </p>
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